<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>A Long Way To Makin' It Right by Fiendishfools</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23239567">A Long Way To Makin' It Right</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fiendishfools/pseuds/Fiendishfools'>Fiendishfools</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Siblings, Alternate Universe - Zombie Apocalypse, Artist Grantaire, Grantaire and Combeferre are Siblings, It's the end of the world and everyone's canadian, M/M, Med Student Combeferre, Older Brother Combeferre, Other, Younger Brother Grantaire, Zombie Apocalypse, also im an only child yes so forgive me for daring to write siblings, also its a Zombie apocalypse so heed that as a general warning, who knows who else is gonna show up! im nowhere near done!</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-03-21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-07-03</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-01 14:14:07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>27,545</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23239567</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fiendishfools/pseuds/Fiendishfools</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>through an unfortunate series of events, estranged brothers Ferre and R must band together to take on the zombie apocalypse. It’s kinda like a buddy cop movie, except with zombies, and also brothers, not cops. will they keep it together for long enough to make it to safety? is there such a thing? why does grantaire have so many grudges? </p><p>Childhood spats have a lot more ground when it’s the end of the world.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Bahorel/Jean Prouvaire, Combeferre &amp; Grantaire (Les Misérables), Combeferre/Courfeyrac (Les Misérables)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>18</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. I Feel Fine</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>tw for like, mild suicidal ideation in that cynical end of the world kind of way. i dont think its too bad but this is also just how my brain works so who knows!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The end of the world is never quite what you expect it to be, and Grantaire had never expected this. For a while he had suspected that maybe he could find the end of the world at the bottom of a bottle. The slow draining of life. Gradual and obvious- something that humanity would be a witness to, either by their own design or by a set of unavoidable circumstances. There was a point in which he nurtured the thought that the end of the world would be like a switch, a sudden darkness where there had once been light; something as simple as the world turning off. Ceasing to be. There was and there was and there was and then suddenly there was not. At some point he had fancied the thought that the end of the world would be like the trees right before winter. Mankind would give its final vibrant hoorah before withering away into god knows what. </p><p>Yes, Grantaire had thought a lot about the end of the world, as it had become something of a comforting thought. He was never sure who said it first, but he vaguely remembered a proverb that went along the lines of: “There are only two certainties in life. Death and taxes.” For a long time, those two things went hand in hand. That is, death and the end of the world. Because as far as Grantaire was concerned, the end of his world would be death. His life was a singular experience, and while for everyone else things would continue to be, for him it was the end of the line. The end of the world. His world. </p><p>As it stood now though, he was forced to face the fact that those two things were not exclusive to one another. Apparently, you could have the end of the world without death. There was no grand ultimatum, no foreseeable bottom of the bottle and not a single godly light switch. No, instead there was a mass of shambling bodies occupying the street of his childhood home. </p><p>He could see them perfectly from the window of the treehouse in the backyard, the one that had once been home to late nights watching the stars and firsts of all different kinds now served as a lookout post. In a way, that was a first as well. He’d have to add it to the list; first kiss, first drink, first can of spray paint, first broken bone and first official unofficial lookout post of the apocalypse. </p><p>The body next to him shifted, and the movement was enough to make him suddenly aware of the ache in his back that came along with sitting on plywood floors for what must have been hours. He blinked once, twice, and cracked his neck to both sides before raising his arms up above his head in a feeble attempt to coax some feeling back into his spine. </p><p>“Jesus christ R.” The body had a voice! </p><p>“What?”</p><p>“Put your fucking hands down.”</p><p>“Why?”</p><p>“You’re going to draw attention to us.”</p><p>Grantaire scoffed, but put his hands down anyway. There was no point in keeping them up there if he was done stretching. Easy as that. “No I’m fucking not. We’ve been sitting here for hours. If they were going to notice us, they would’ve done it by now. We’re not exactly subtle”</p><p>Combeferre glared very briefly in his direction, but didn’t say a word. He didn’t really need to; the look he gave was more than enough for Grantaire to understand the intent.</p><p>What a pair they made, Grantaire staring intently at Ferre, reading the silence and Ferre staring intently out the window, his eyes focused on the horde. </p><p>The silence persisted, and after having previously opened up the dialogue, Grantaire wasn’t keen on letting it disappear so quickly. He wasn’t going to spend another two hours in silence, even if that meant prodding a little bit. </p><p>“You’re no better… I wasn’t the one who decided to start talking.” </p><p>Combeferre’s jaw tightened beneath his stoic facade. If Grantaire knew how to do one thing, it was rub him the wrong way. </p><p>“Do you want to get us killed?”</p><p>“It wasn’t my intention, no. But even if it was, it’d only be your problem. I died of boredom like, yesterday.” Grantaire rebuked, all sass- no serious. </p><p>“You don’t have to keep watch with me.” </p><p>“So I should just go back in the house, then?” </p><p>“That’s not what I’m saying.”</p><p>“Oh really? Cause that’s what you were implying. Unless I’m supposed to do something else?”</p><p>“You could just stay in the yard-”</p><p>“Oh! Should I go for a jaunt down the street perhaps? Say hello to the neighbours?”</p><p>“Come on-”</p><p>“You know, I heard Miss Delaney’s garden is just splendid this year, do you think that if I asked nicely enough she’d let me in the back to oogle her zucchini?”</p><p>Combeferre sighed- loud and far too tired for a man that was done with his studies. “Are we really doing this now?”</p><p>“Doing what? I’m not doing anything. Just making small talk-” </p><p>“You’re being an asshole.”</p><p>“Am I now? Care to elaborate?”</p><p>“Now’s not the time.”</p><p>Grantaire scoffed. “It’s the end of the fucking world, Ferre.” He put emphasis on ‘end’ and ‘world’ to really get his point across. Not that he thought it made any difference to anyone but himself. “I can’t imagine a better time.” </p><p>A beat. </p><p>Combeferre shook his head slowly. Seemingly, this brief exchange was more than enough for him. Like any sensible person, this whole end of the world thing had worn him thin, and Grantaire, in that way that only younger siblings could, had kept picking at the patches. </p><p>He brought his hands up to rub at his face, a silent resignation and the closest thing that Grantaire would ever get to ‘I give up’. He had never been one for words when they weren’t necessary- something about making them count. R, on the other hand had always subscribed to the idea that the best kind of words were those unnecessary. Nothing good was ever said because it needed to be, thank you very much. </p><p>The plywood floor creaked ever-so-slightly as Ferre laid back, bringing his hands round behind his head. There was no relaxation in his movements. Despite the hole in the roof above them, this wasn’t an opportunity to stargaze or cloud-watch. It was all necessity, all the time. </p><p>There was another moment of silence. And another. And another. And Grantaire thought that maybe just maybe he had finally lost him. It was only a matter of time before he found a way to  break the toothpick bridge that held them together- that which was already so poorly constructed. Ferre would snap and yell at him until all the former inhabitants of the road knew exactly where they were. Or maybe he’d just up and leave in the middle of the night, leaving Grantaire to fend for himself. He had to admit that it would’ve been on brand. </p><p>But no. No that wasn’t was what happening- nor did it appear like that was what was going to happen. </p><p>Ferre shifted, his head lolling over to the side so that he could squint at Grantaire, who, in return, went back to staring out the plywood hole of a window. It was this running game that they played; Grantaire did everything in his power to get his brother’s attention, and then he fought to hold onto it for as long as it was a struggle and then the moment it wasn’t- the game was done. He didn’t want to play anymore. Now that he had Ferre’s full attention the stains on the fence across the way seemed particularly interesting. </p><p>“We can’t stay here forever.” He said. </p><p>“I know.” Grantaire replied. </p><p>“As much as I love the treehouse, we’re gonna start running out of food and there’s only so many corner stores around.“</p><p>“I know. I said I know. I get the implications.”</p><p>“I think… I think we should think about getting out of here- no, I mean, I’ve been thinking of a plan. To get us out of here.” </p><p>Grantaire had been thinking about that too- he had since they had gotten stuck up in the treehouse in the first place. But no plan that he had ever come up with had ever seemed good enough to even risk mentioning. He figured he’d leave it to Combeferre and his genius project managing skills or whatever this fell under. If this wasn’t already listed on his five-star resume, then it would be soon. Apocalypse escape planning came before underwater basket weaving but after natural leader. </p><p>“How?”</p><p>“We get the bikes out of the garage- then follow the trails in the park. They’ll lead us safely through the woods and then right up next to the highway.” He pushed himself up onto his elbows to look at Grantaire, in that stupid way that someone who knew exactly what they were talking about did to prove that they knew exactly what they were talking about. “We jump the fence and ride the highway- it’s not ideal, but I figure that we’ll be able to see anything coming our way and plan accordingly. And then we just keep riding for as long as we need to until we find safety or.. Peace. I guess. I haven’t exactly gotten that far ahead but its… You know…” Combeferre had been trailing off since they were kids. Too many ideas to get them all out at once, or something fucking stupid like that. “A work in progress.” </p><p>“How are we gonna get to the bikes?” </p><p>There was only one answer to that question. They both knew that. Grantaire didn’t even really know why he had asked. Something about the need to pick a fight. Something about the need to shoot him down. </p><p>“We’ll go through the house.” </p><p>“We can’t. You said we wouldn’t.”</p><p>“Listen-“ Combeferre pleaded.</p><p>“We can’t fucking go through the house and you know that.”</p><p>“We don’t really have a choice!” Ferre was sitting up now. There was no way to argue when all of your weight was on your elbows- especially not for a person who talked with their hands as much as he did. Taking away his ability to gesticulate was like taking away the source of his power. “We’ve gotta try!”</p><p>“Absolutely not.”</p><p>“Would you rather starve to death?”</p><p>“There’s gotta be another way.”</p><p>“If you can think of one I’d love to hear it.” Bullshit. </p><p>Grantaire sighed- not in the way that Combeferre did, more so in aggravation. “What about the neighbours- can’t we raid one of their garages?”</p><p>“Who knows what they have, though.” </p><p>“Exactly! It could be great! There could be bikes and more! There could be a fucking spaceship that’ll take us out of this hellhole and to like, mars or something. We could be astronauts, Ferre.” </p><p>“Or there could be nothing.” Ferre corrected. And Grantaire was about to continue with his spaceship theory when he kept going. “At least here we know what we’re getting into. If we’re gonna be taking a risk it should be calculated, we should know what we’re getting into.” </p><p>“That’s the fucking thing though- we know what we’re getting into. You can’t seriously be suggesting we go in there. You know what’s in there.”</p><p>“Of course I do.” </p><p>“And we wouldn’t be fucking up here to begin with if we didn’t know. What’s this about suddenly wanting to fucking go in there, huh? When did you grow a pair?</p><p>“It’s not about bravery- it’s necessity.” </p><p>“We could die, Ferre.” Was it pleading? Maybe- not that he’d ever admit it. </p><p>“And we’ll die up here if we don’t do something!” </p><p>“So what?”</p><p>“You can’t seriously be giving up already.”</p><p>“I’m not giving up, there is nothing here to give up. We have nothing. I’m just accepting the inevitable.”</p><p>“We’ve still got each other, R. That’s something, right? That’s enough to get us out of here.”</p><p>Grantaire stared at him. </p><p>The bitter words he wanted to say hung in the air just in front of him. Just out of reach. He fucking hated him for pulling a line like that- he wanted to punch his stupid fucking face in for even suggesting the plan in the first place- he wanted to fucking throw himself out into the street and let the zombies tear him limb from limb and stare Ferre down from where he’d stand frozen in the window of the treehouse- he wanted to shove the bastard out of the window himself, let the zombies do with him as they pleased and then lay back and stare out the sunroof until the screams died and the day turned to night and the weight of the world left his shoulders and he shrivelled away into nothingness. </p><p>Instead he looked away. He did not say a word. </p><p>If they were lucky they’d both be dead by the time this was over. </p><p>That didn’t seem so bad. </p><p>Grantaire nodded. He did not say a word, but he nodded.</p><p>“Okay?” Ferre asked. </p><p>He nodded. </p><p>“Thank you. It’s gonna work. I promise it’s gonna work.” </p><p>“Mm.” </p><p>There was a beat and you could practically feel it in the air. It was the breath where Ferre registered how begrudgingly this deal was accepted. It was the beat where he let it slide anyway.</p><p>“Tomorrow morning. We’ll go down come dawn so that we can use as much of the natural light as possible to cover as much ground as possible.” </p><p>Grantaire nodded. The fall from the treehouse down to the street below wouldn’t kill him- but it would certainly stun him for long enough for everything else to kill him. That wasn’t so bad. If he landed on his head maybe he’d get knocked out. It was as close to dying in your sleep as he was likely to get these days, really. </p><p>“I promise this’ll work. I promise. Just…” From the corner of his eye, Grantaire could see Ferre looking directly at him. Searching, maybe. Interpreting. Translating. Whatever it was that he pretended to do that made him look so goddamn smart all the fucking time. Grantaire wouldn’t spare him a glance- that wasn’t a sacrifice he was willing to make. “Get some sleep, okay? Try. Try to get some sleep. You’re gonna need it.”</p><p>“Yeah.” He finally said. “You too.” </p><p>There would be no sleep tonight, they both knew it.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Two Damn Minutes</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>the end of what is basically the prologue--once you come down from the treehouse, there's no going back up. AKA a little mini chapter so that chapter 1 isn't approximately 3000 words long, cause thats a biiiiiit fuckin excessive.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>nothing super graphic in this chapter!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The sun rose like it would have on any other pre-apocalyptic day. </p><p>In the face of great tragedies, Grantaire had always loathed the people who made some case about not grieving for too long because “The world’ll still turn, whether you like it or not.” It was some kind of new age bullshit meant to force people into going back to work despite their mourning or whatever- to get over their crippling depression in the face of a lost loved one or an event of cataclysmic forces. Well, it had always felt like that to him anyway.</p><p>But the thing was- those people were right. He witnessed it himself every morning. </p><p>No matter how much he wanted the world to implode on itself, or no matter how much he prayed for the world to stop and freeze him in one peaceful moment- it just kept turning. There were still beautiful sunrises. There was still crisp morning air. Somehow, there were still birds. </p><p>Fucking birds. </p><p>It was going to take more than a couple zombies to stop that. They could tear down the human race, but they couldn’t tear the sun out of the sky. But goddamn- wouldn’t that be a sight to see. </p><p>In the land of the living- yet again was Grantaire’s attention was caught by a rustling next to him. Ferre was up. </p><p>He had never really checked, but he didn’t figure Combeferre slept all that much either. It was hard to. Between the plywood floors and the relentless groaning from just a few feet away, there wasn’t really room for relaxation. Grantaire had basically given up on the idea of ever sleeping in a proper bed again. Just another part of the apocalypse, he had told himself, the people on the walking dead never got duvets, did they? </p><p>He sat up and looked over at his brother- who low and behold looked like shit. Yeah, a face like that was a far cry from the face of a well-rested man. </p><p>Combeferre looked down at him from where he was standing. He didn’t bother to smile, or wish him a good morning or anything- they both knew it was a fruitless endeavour. Grantaire had already agreed to go along with his stupid plan, so there was no need for him to play nice. Plus, it wasn’t a fucking good morning, so why pretend? </p><p>“How much time do you need?” Combeferre asked. He had morning voice. He’d have it until he woke up completely, which frankly wouldn’t be too far away. </p><p>“Two minutes- I just need to psych myself up.” Grantaire replied. </p><p>Ferre nodded. Two minutes. It was basically an eternity, for all Grantaire cared. Those could very well be the last two peaceful minutes of his life. The last two un-undead minutes of his life. The last good memory he would ever make. Maybe if he was lucky that’d be the case. </p><p>He stood up slowly, and the plywood creaked underneath him with every subtle movement. That was all it took for the blood to get pumping again. They hadn’t even gotten anything in motion and he was already feeling the adrenaline- the anxiety- coursing through his veins. He wondered if Combeferre was feeling it too. Probably not. When was the last time he had felt anything anyway? Grantaire figured it must’ve been at least a couple years now. The stoic son of a bitch. </p><p>He cracked his neck to both sides- and it creaked like an old garage door. Maybe not as loud, but that’s what it felt like. Grantaire had aged far beyond his years in the span of a week. It was cruel and unusual. The apocalypse was cruel and unusual. He reached down to scoop up the flannel he had been using as a rather poor makeshift pillow- less than gracefully putting it back on and rolling the sleeves up to an appropriate height. You know, something that was less “I’m going to a business meeting” and more “Lets build a deck or meet our inevitable doom.” </p><p>The groaning on the street peaked momentarily- the horde’s attention caught by something moving in the distance. Grantaire froze. He could only see them out of the corner of his eye, but Ferre was looking out the window dead on. He seemed to have frozen as well- but the look on his face wasn’t one of fear, it was just tense. The horde wasn’t coming towards them, that much Grantaire could deduce already. They weren’t mince meat yet. Though it wouldn’t be long. </p><p>“Alright.” Grantaire said. </p><p>“Alright.” Combeferre repeated. </p><p>“This is it?” </p><p>“It is.” </p><p>“We’re going down?”</p><p>“We are.” Ferre replied.  </p><p>It was Ferre who made a move first. While Grantaire stood there, he lowered himself down and propped open the wooden hatch for what would likely be the last time. He’d go first- that was no surprise. Grantaire would follow. That too, was no surprise. </p><p>He had begun to lower himself down onto the ladder when Grantaire finally decided to move, though it didn’t come as a simultaneous lowering, or a cautious glance out the window. Grantaire moved, and as he did, he spoke. </p><p>“We’re gonna fucking die, aren’t we?” He asked. A genuine question, though it was shrouded with rhetoricals. All the same, it was enough to make Combeferre falter. He stopped, both feet on the ladder out of Grantaire’s sight. He stared, both eyes looking up at Grantaire. </p><p>“No. We’re not.” He answered. Even R had to admit that his words seemed certain. Didn’t stop him from scoffing and rolling his eyes, but sure, they seemed certain. As certain as death and taxes. Grantaire was still more certain in the former than any of Ferre’s promises. What were those worth anyway?</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>hi! thanks for stopping by! i promise more is gonna happen in the next chapter, i just like to take my time setting the scene. </p><p>Chapter title is from two minutes by The Amazing Devil, whom ive been listening to non-stop since thursday, and thusly concludes the "Fine" portion of this fic. </p><p>next chapter up soon!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. You've Gotta Start Somewhere</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>R and Ferre make their daring escape. No one keeps their word.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Grantaire jumped off of the ladder and landed with a soft thump. No more words had been exchanged beyond the ones that still hung in the now stagnant air of the treehouse. Combeferre said they weren’t going to die- Combeferre was the one with the plan- Combeferre knew best- they weren’t going to die. </p><p>It was that kind of circular logic that had gotten Grantaire down the old ladder and through a semester of high school philosophy. </p><p>Combeferre was a little ways away, Grantaire could see him out of the corner of his eye. Pacing the wall of their childhood home- peeking in through the window into the kitchen, daring a glance through the sliding glass doors- the ones closed completely but left unlocked. They were the obvious entry into the house, though also the riskiest. It had a nasty squeak to it, one that rang out through the house when you opened it, and was guaranteed to foil any late night sneaking in attempts one would make in their adolescence. This much, Grantaire knew from experience. </p><p>Beyond the fence to his right, Grantaire could still hear the groaning of the dead on the street. It was a constant, at least. It had remained constant, too. Which was good. It meant this whole thing hadn’t yet gone to shit. </p><p>“R.” Ferre started, it came out as a stage-whisper from where he was crouched down next to the house. </p><p>Grantaire glanced back at him over his shoulder, noted his brother’s outline against the cream-coloured siding of the house (had he always been that thin?) and then remembered the small window that lead into the basement. Ferre already had it propped open. </p><p>“No one down there.” He said. “I’ll go first- then it’s just a straight-shot up to the garage door.” </p><p>“As long as nothing happens.” Grantaire said.</p><p>“As long as nothing happens.”  Combeferre agreed, in a tone that suggested he didn’t think anything was going to happen. Or that at least he wasn’t gonna let on that he didn’t think that  nothing was gonna happen- which was what Grantaire suspected was the case. </p><p>Anyway- he crouched down to peer past Ferre into the little window as he slowly lowered himself down. As far as he could tell, the basement had stayed the same. Safe from the apocalypse and any changes past the year of 2014. </p><p>There was the sound of shoes on concrete and the sudden liberation of the window. </p><p>Now, this wasn’t the first time that Grantaire had lowered himself down through the basement window, but it was certainly the most sober he had ever done it, and somehow this made the task harder. Then again maybe it was the nerves. The nerves- it was the nerves. </p><p>Behind him he could hear Ferre’s footsteps grow distant as he ventured further into the basement. No doubt walking towards the workshop tucked away behind the stairs. Yeah, so much for a straight shot up to the garage door, huh? It was kind of a long-shot anyway, they were both too curious, too nosey to figure that it would’ve actually been a viable choice. So Grantaire followed his older brother, ducking down slightly to get past the heating duct and over into the workshop. Combeferre was already milling about somewhere in the back corner, pulling down box after big blue box filled with winter clothes and extension cables and—camping supplies. </p><p>Huh. Leave it to Ferre to have all of the good ideas.</p><p>Grantaire sauntered over to the cabinet next to furnace like he had all the time in the world. Behind the old wooden doors, there was paint— right where he had left it. He recognized the half-empty eggshell blue that they had used to cover the horrible green in Combeferre’s room when they had moved in. He remembered sticking with the orange. Orange was a good colour, a little abrasive, sure, but he liked it. Combeferre couldn’t stand it, though, which really made it all the better. </p><p>Something hit his side, and fell to the ground at his feet. He reached down to pick up the old backpack. Look at that, another good idea. </p><p>“Gear up.” Combeferre said, as if he knew how fucking smart he was. </p><p>It made anything he said seem lesser. It was like when someone knew they were attractive. Just made them fucking ugly. It was like the reason anything stuck was because someone was humble. Course, Ferre had never been humble to begin with. </p><p>Didn't matter though. Cause it was a good idea. Not that he was gonna admit it.  </p><p>Grantaire crouched down in front of the cabinet, pulled forwards the containers of hooks and wall mounts to get to the toolbox. There wasn’t much in it anymore, most of it was back at his studio in Montreal—his parents had never really been builders, Ferre either, actually. Just him—but there was a hammer and one of those little paint can crowbars, so he tucked them away into the bottom of the bag. He threw a couple cans of spray paint in there too.Spray paint had uses beyond the everyday, and if anytime was beyond the everyday, it was going to be during the apocalypse. It’d come in handy eventually. Maybe not. </p><p>Worse to worse— makeshift pepper spray. </p><p>He stood, turning on his heel, and Ferre was knelt down next to one of those blue boxes, rifling through old scarves and mitts that neither of them had worn in years. Grantaire thought that he looked like a fucking dad sitting there, but he knew that nothing could’ve been further from the truth. Ferre, as time had proved, was possibly the human being with the least parental instincts in the whole wide world. He was like—one of those sea turtles. You know, the ones who lay their eggs on the beach and then get the fuck out before they’re tasked with actually taking care of anything. </p><p>Grantaire liked to think that maybe he’d be more like a seahorse or something, but truth be told he didn’t expect to live long to need to worry about what kind of parental skills he had. It had never been part of the plan and it was even less part of the plan now. </p><p>Combeferre threw a hat in his direction but this time Grantaire caught it. </p><p>“We’re gonna need it eventually.” He said. </p><p>“Are we?” Grantaire prodded. </p><p>“Yeah. Course we are. Gets cold in the winter—“</p><p>“Yeah, I fucking know it gets cold in the winter, I lived here too.”</p><p>It looked like Ferre was holding his reply on the end of his tongue. Course, he knew better than to start a shouting match right then. It would’ve been easy to, though. The walls of the house echoed shouting matches past, they, if no one else, knew what the two of them were capable of.  But Ferre held it in. He twisted his face into a grimace and bowed his head, going back to his stupid fucking box. </p><p>Grantaire hadn't even noticed that he was crushing the hat in his fist. Could just leave it there on the floor. Combeferre would look up and he’d see it there and he’d know where Grantaire stood on the matter, and it’d be easy, too. All he needed to do was let go of it. He turned away. Stuffed the hat into his bag. </p><p>He ducked back under the duct and wandered his way out into the main part of the unfinished basement. Light still filtered in through the open window, but otherwise it was dark. The only source of light came from up the stairs. It hit the white wall that longed the stairs and reflected down onto the concrete floor, lighting up the whole place in kind of a surreal glow. It’d get darker as the day moved along and the sun rose higher and higher into the sky, but by then the two of them would be long gone. </p><p>Grantaire moved quietly. Ferre would catch up eventually. He knew what they were doing. It was his plan, after all. That’s what Grantaire thought standing at the foot of the stairs. The door at the top was still closed, the landing between it and him holding their way out. It was a straight shot up to the garage—but it was just as straight of a shot out that top door and into the kitchen. </p><p>The pantry was right next to the entrance, and Grantaire knew, he knew that he knew that he knew, that if he was quick he could go in, scoop a couple armfuls of cans into his bag, and be back down in the safety of the basement before Combeferre even noticed. </p><p>He also knew that Ferre would call him a fucking idiot for pulling a risky move like that. But it was worth the look on his face when they’d stop later that night and they’d both be able to eat their fill for the first time since this whole thing had fucking started. </p><p>Yeah, it’d be a lie to say that hunger didn’t play a part in the spurring of this shitty shitty decision too. </p><p>So Grantaire crept up the stairs. The wood bent under his feet, made soft with age, but by the grace of some kind of god, it didn’t creak. He stopped at the top stair, and pressed his ear to the door. He held his breath. </p><p>He could hear—the pounding of his own heart inside his head. He could hear Ferre rifling around downstairs. He could hear the fridge, whirring away just a couple feet ahead of him. </p><p>He rested his hand on the doorknob, and for just a second—the first flash of the day—he thought about the end. On the other side of that door could very well be the end of his story. There’d be a clatter and fright would send him tumbling down the stairs. If he was lucky, the fall would break his neck. Knowing his luck it’d only send whatever was up there lumbering after him. He would scream, Ferre would come running, see what was happening— but it’d be too late. He’d make a run for the window, scramble back out, but by the time he could even lay a hand on the ladder, the fence would rattle with the force of a hundred horde. He’d make it up there just fine, but safety came with isolation. He’d be stuck up there, all alone. Better off dead, frankly. </p><p>And Grantaire? Well—Grantaire would be dead. </p><p>For better or for worst. </p><p>He pushed down on the handle, which turned with a little click, and—slowly— the door opened. </p><p>The house didn’t stir. Nothing was waiting for him on the other side of those two inches of wood. There was only a kitchen, a pantry, and a straight shot between the two. He stepped up onto the first floor, crossed the gap in one, two, three steps, and opened the pantry without a plan. He only payed haphazard attention to the labels on the cans as he shovelled them into his backpack. </p><p>A couple rooms down, the floor groaned. Grantaire froze. His bag was already hanging low, weighed down by the contents he had gotten so far. </p><p>It only took one, two, three more steps and he was back in the stairwell, the door closed firmly behind him. His story, whatever kind of shitty novella it was, didn’t end there. What were the fucking odds? </p><p>Zipping his bag up all the way and slinging it over his other shoulder, he carefully made his way down to the first landing. The door into the garage went by much faster, there was no guessing necessary. Just a movement, and a greeting from the cold damp air that radiated through the space.  It smelled, honestly, no worse than the rest of the fucking neighbourhood. Ever since shit hit had hit the fan, Grantaire felt like the entire world had to be coated in the same sort of thick musk, that make breathing not exactly difficult, but kind of a chore. </p><p>In the darkness, Grantaire could already make out a couple bikes leaned up against the wall. They were old, and dusty with disuse, but they'd do the trick. Of course, Combeferre's plan wasn't going to be foiled by something like time. He had probably factored that in anyway. </p><p>The smug bastard. </p><p>And if he had, then it was probably because there was a tire pump hidden away somewhere. Grantaire had no doubt about it, actually, which made it an excellent place to start. He set his bag down on the concrete and made his way towards the shelf tucked away at the front of the garage. There among the broken flower pots and the piles of tools that, realistically, no one had ever used, Grantaire found what he was actually looking for. </p><p>It was a little rusty, sure, but so were the bikes-- and they had a lot more riding on those than they did on the fucking tire pump. So he pulled it out from the cobwebs, making sure to avoid the pots and the tools and all of the other potential noise makers. He set it back down next to his bag to have his hands free to wrench the bikes free from the mess that was the rest of the garage. With only a little bit of finagling, his old bike came out first. Combeferre’s followed shortly, groaning only a little bit more. Ferre’s teenage years hadn’t been kind to it. There wasn’t a lot of time to bike around when you were busy being a fucking genius or whatever. And yet, despite the fact that he had spent most of his time between the ages of 12 and 18 locked away in his room, it was only ever Grantaire who had ever gotten shit for not doing anything with his time. Because nothing only counted if it didn’t look good. At least studying was studying, but who could account for what Grantaire was out doing? Who could argue that graffiti was actually art? That his friends weren’t just a bunch of lousy no-good lowlifes? Ferre’s friends had never done anything even marginally more remarkable than what R’s friends had had to offer, they just hadn’t done anything worse, either. They were fucking complacent, as far as R was concerned. Not deciding was a choice. Inaction was action within itself. Good grades weren’t worth much if you didn’t do anything with them. </p><p>In the back of his head, Grantaire could’ve sworn that he heard a door open. He looked back over his shoulder, expecting to see Combeferre lumbering his way into the garage, but saw nothing.  </p><p>He was hearing things. That was a good sign. Nothing said sanity like hearing things that weren’t there. </p><p>The pump nozzle barely fit into the valve of the first tire, aged and ragged with rust. It was a wonder their parents had kept any of this stuff around. Grantaire would’ve thought that his parents would’ve given them all away by now. All they were doing was sitting and collecting dust; it was kind of a fucking shame, honestly. There were plenty of kids around to benefit from them, but had that been the case, they wouldn’t have been waiting there for Grantaire to take in the advent of the apocalypse. </p><p>It was bittersweet, wasn’t it? </p><p>The second tire stopped accepting air, and Grantaire wiggled the nozzle out, carefully twisting the cap back into place. </p><p>From that same place where he had heard the door opening and closing what felt like just moments ago, there was another noise. Two noises. A clatter, a shout, and in the time it took for Grantaire’s head to whip back around to look at the door, he understood what was going on. </p><p>The bike pump fell to the ground with a thunk, and as if by the design, Grantaire felt the air in the garage grow colder. It made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up, though that might’ve also been the adrenaline. Maybe they had always been like that and he just hadn’t noticed until now. He fumbled with the door handle, hands suddenly heavy and dumb. The staircase on the other side looked untouched save for the door at the top that hung slightly ajar. </p><p>He heard another shout, and his body sprung into action. He took the steps in bounds of three, scrambling upwards, through the door, towards the end of the hall—the only possible source of sound. </p><p>This time, the floor boards creaked noisily under his lumbering steps. </p><p>Down the hall, past his door, the bathroom, Ferre’s room, all the way until there was only a single door left. Behind it, the noise and the moving shadows in the early-morning glow—the inevitable. </p><p>Grantaire didn’t think, he just shoved the door open. It hit the back wall with a bang, and at once the figure on top of Ferre looked up from where he had him pinned. </p><p>“GO!” Ferre shouted. </p><p>Instead of listening, R barrelled forwards, missing Ferre’s face with his footfall by mere inches, and bowling the figure to the ground. It smelled of rot and cologne. Grantaire couldn’t tell what was more sickening. It—no, it was the rot. The rot and the way it’s cold hands grabbed onto his flannel like a kid on a fairground ride. </p><p>Grantaire was acutely aware of the way the bed rattled next to him, but no more so than he was of Ferre’s hands wrenching the figure to the side and pulling him up by the hand. </p><p>They flew down the hall, leaving the door open behind them—leaving all of them open until the noises drew nearer and they had no choice but to hoist up the garage door as well. Ferre jumped on his bike first. It creaked under his weight, but held tight. Grantaire did the same, scooping his bag up from the floor in the process. </p><p>Ferre went first, Grantaire followed. </p><p>Ferre made a hard right onto the bike path at the side of the road, stopping himself from barrelling right into the horde, Grantaire did the same, only barely avoiding the outstretched hands.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>hello! hope you enjoyed this chapter! I've been having a rly good time revisiting this work! I started it in 2017 (when i was 16 oh my god) and havent really touched it much since! this chapter marks the last full chapter that was written back then! ah!!!! henceforth we are moving into the unknown... </p><p>Dun dun duhhh!!!</p><p>Okay, not really, the unknown, I do have a plan, but now I have to actually write it. Which is terrifying. I hope you'll stick with me through this, and I hope you enjoy what I've got so far, if nothing else.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Bicycle Safety Rule Number 1: Always Wear a Helmet</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Tension comes to blows and... Blow-ups. Our boys navigate the paths of a local park in the hopes of making it to the highway.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The bike path dipped down somewhere in the middle of the forest at the edge of the park. Beyond the trees somewhere there was the highway, but it wouldn’t come into view for another couple miles. Grantaire’s lungs burned in his chest, setting him on fire as his adrenaline died down. In front of him, Ferre was huffing and puffing as they made their way. Those years of med school hadn’t done him any favours in the physical fitness department. R didn’t get out much either, but he kept moving. He was moving even now, pedalling faster to cut in front of Ferre and swerving sideways to come to a screeching stop in the middle of the path. </p><p>Combeferre nearly flipped over his handlebars coming to a stop. </p><p>“Fuck, Taire!” </p><p>“What the fuck was that back there?” </p><p>“We have to go.” </p><p>“What the fuck was that?” </p><p>“WE HAVE TO GO.”</p><p>Grantaire’s bike fell to the ground as he hopped off of it, and Combeferre’s went next as he was knocked to the ground by R’s much surer fist. </p><p>Combeferre hopped back to his feet just as quickly, the rush of adrenaline doing much to nimble his older bones. Grantaire hadn’t wanted to knock him down to the ground—but having it said and done made him wish his brother had stayed down. His fingers itched at his side, and electricity was pooling in his arm, urging his muscles to contract and strike again. He would, if given the chance.</p><p>“WHAT THE FUCK!” Ferre yelled, stepping forwards over his bike to shove Grantaire at the shoulders. He jostled, half-stepping back to brace himself, hand still rock hard at his side. </p><p>“WHY DID YOU DO THAT?”</p><p>“YOU PUNCHED ME!” </p><p>“YOU SAID YOU WOULDN’T FUCKING GO IN THERE.” </p><p>Ferre stared him down furiously, the muscles in his face contorting something awful. R could see the gears turning in his head, pushing his thoughts into overdrive as he searched for what to say. Ferre was the one supposed to be doing the thinking. Not Grantaire. It was never Grantaire, and yet apparently so much had changed. </p><p>Somewhere in the distance a fence toppled over, Ferre turned away, clutching his cheek as it reddened. </p><p>“You’re an idiot.” Grantaire said, picking up his bike. His shook his hand out instead of looking at his brother. It was a good punch. He didn’t want to see the damage. </p><p>“We need to keep going.” Ferre’s bike creaked and jangled. </p><p>It was Grantaire’s head that was racing now. It made his temples hurt, like pressure building up behind his eyes. Ferre probably knew the technical term for that feeling. He’d tell him that he had three days to live, Grantaire would reply good riddance, and he’d get the shit smacked out of him. As it stood, the good riddance was kind of a constant. </p><p>They’d managed to make themselves known to every single zombie that had made Duval their shambling home. The last time Grantaire had counted, that was… Thirty, maybe forty bodies. All of the once-folks from the lower-income housing had made their way to the spot where Orleans had seemingly made it’s last stand, and once the stand had stood it’s final stance, they’d just stayed. Every morning when he woke up, and every night before he went to bed, Grantaire felt as though the horde has always known where they were—that they were just being waited out. </p><p>It was no consolation to R that he was maybe being hunted by things with a sick sense of timing, a thing he couldn’t really be sure of. </p><p>What he figured, though, was that they probably weren’t too far away. </p><p>Ferre was right, they needed to keep going. </p><p>Ferre had a plan, he just didn’t have any fucking sense, and Grantaire would scream about it more if he could, if that pressure behind his eyes hadn’t turned into a prickling, which threatened to topple over the pillar of solitude he’d placed himself up high upon since the eleventh grade. </p><p>They needed to keep going. </p><p>He kicked his leg over his bike and nodded for Ferre to lead. Like a wolf pack, the slowest lead the way. Grantaire would take up the rear. </p><p>They rode through the trails in silence, kicking up dirt and leaves as they carved through the woods. Up and down and up and down, until the sound of the horde behind them faded away, leaving only their own breathing and the birds above. </p><p>Fucking birds. </p><p>It had been ten, maybe fifteen minutes since things had popped off, and in that time Grantaire had already decided what he’d do differently, if by some fucking miracle, he opened hi eyes and this was all a terrible dream. He hadn’t considered what sitting around in a treehouse for nine days would do to his body, and he definitely hadn’t fucking thought of stretching beforehand, or properly hydrating. If he was feeling it, he was certain Ferre had to be, too. This whole break-neck pace wasn’t going to be sustainable for very long. </p><p>The paths in the woods twisted and turned following the ravine that was hidden away in the brush next to Des Epinettes, That ravine was the remnants of a river that had mostly dried up long ago, thanks to the land developers that thought the little plateau was the perfect spot to set up a neighbourhood. The river had ran all the way to the Outaouais situated past the highway, and the path had taken up that same trajectory, crossing Des Epinettes and picking right back up again on the other side. </p><p>Ferre rounded that final corner first, just as the street came into view. </p><p>“Fuck.” He said. </p><p>“Down.” Grantaire replied. </p><p>They both dropped to the ground, lowering their bikes with as little clatter as possible, so as not to attract the horde that had meandered on the main road. </p><p>“Didn’t anyone teach them to use crosswalks?” </p><p>“Not the time.” Ferre snapped. </p><p>“What do we do?” </p><p>“Portage through the woods and cross further down the road?”</p><p>Grantaire shook his head. “I don’t know where else the paths opens up to. That’s the only spot.”</p><p>“And they’ll probably see us coming if we try and circle back once we’re on the other side.” </p><p>“We can’t fight, there’s easily twenty of them.” </p><p>“Twenty-four.” </p><p>Grantaire rolled his eyes.</p><p>“Maybe if we wait them out, they’ll—“</p><p>“See us and chase us right back where we came from, and into the arms of their friends?” R supplied. He watched Ferre consider the thought, and finally nod. Time was of the essence, and Ferre had said it himself, if they were going to make a risk, it should be a calculated one. It had to be on their own terms. </p><p>Grantaire hated that he fucking agreed. </p><p>The horde in front of them groaned in staccato, shambling this way and that without much of a purpose. By the looks of it, they’d been drawn down into the groove where the ravine intersected the road, and hadn’t yet found the will to make the climb back up. If they were going to move, they’d need some convincing. Like…</p><p>“We need a…” Combeferre started. “Distrac—“</p><p>“Got it—got it got it got it.” </p><p>Grantaire sat up quickly, avoiding the spokes of his bike laying on the dirt next to him, and pulled his backpack into his lap. He’d forgotten how heavy it was, cluttered with cans. Beans and corn and ravioli, all of which he handed to Ferre. </p><p>“Where did you get all that?” </p><p>“Pantry.” </p><p>“Oh.” </p><p>Obviously, Grantaire wouldn’t have thought to stock up while they were still home, right? Saintly Ferre had taken his time to get hats, and camping supplies, while Grantaire had jerked off into an outlet before saving his goddamn life and hightailing it out of there. No Grantaire was no good. </p><p>Which was why he’d remembered to bring his old cans of spray paint. </p><p>Grantaire fished his lighter out of his pocket. </p><p>“This is a terrible idea.” Ferre warned, shoving the cans of food into his backpack all the same. </p><p>“This is a fucking terrible idea.” Grantaire agreed, bringing the flame to the bottom of the can. “This is dumb, this is so fucking dumb.” </p><p>The can was heating up in his hand—faster than he’d expected. All those years of waiting around wearing the metal down into thin, heat-conducting channels. </p><p>“Not too long.”  His brother’s voice wavered. </p><p>Five, six more seconds, the can was hot and R pocketed his lighter. </p><p>Grantaire watched the mass shamble for a split second, and then flicked his gaze up to the top of the slope, right before the road started to dip down to intersect with the ravine. </p><p>“Do it.” Ferre said. And then again: “Quickly.” </p><p>He chucked the can, and it went flying through the air, over the heads of the horde, towards the road on their left. It hit the ground with a clang, just as the groaning peaked, and exploded into a burst of bright blue. The whole horde lurched in front of them, confused for a moment, and then locked dead-set on the quickly dissipating cloud. A few of the closer ones had already reached it, and sure as the wind, the ravine started to clear out. </p><p>Not for long, though. </p><p>Grantaire was still watching the cloud when Ferre grabbed his arm, tugging him forwards, saying something or another. Right—go. Go. NOW.</p><p>“NOW!” </p><p>Grantaire hoisted his bike up, throwing his leg over it as he went barrelling down the last length of the path, Ferre taking the lead. They exploded onto the pavement of the main road, and just as quickly, they were past it, already tumbling down onto the other side of the path. </p><p>Behind them, the noises surged, but Grantaire didn’t look back. His heart was already pounding in his chest, like a flock of birds flying south for the winter, desperately trying to outrun the cold. His cold had hands, breath like sour milk, and the desire to rip him limb from limb. </p><p>“I can’t believe that worked!” He shouted. </p><p>“Keep going!” Ferre replied, just barely over his shoulder. “We’re almost at the highway!” </p><p>They were. Grantaire hadn’t even noticed it. The growing winds of a coming clearing, the relative unfamiliarity of the path so far. He’d never gone this far as a kid. There was no need to, what with the plethora of fences on the way, ready for the painting. Part of him had still expected to hear cars before knowing they were close. Obviously no one was driving. Well—he hoped not. He and Ferre could outrun regular zombies, but zombies in Mazdas were another story entirely. </p><p>The forest broke apart to reveal a blue morning sky, a wire fence, and an empty highway ahead of them. </p><p>Thank fuck.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Ahh!!!!!!!! this is officially the end of pre-written material. 2017-me dropped out about halfway through this chapter, and so I've been finishing it, getting back into the groove, and making questionable google searches! I hope you've enjoyed it so far, and I hope you'll continue to stick with me as I figure this out--if not, that's perfectly okay, and thanks for making it this far.</p><p>but if you do stay, i promise lots more familiar faces and harrowing...ness</p><p>chapters are gonna be a little slower coming as I now have to write them all start to finish, but I will continue to try and update semi-regularly! </p><p>if you like, drop me a comment, lets discuss--I'd love to know what you think (or you can find me @ my tumblr listed below &lt;3)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. The Neighbourhood at the End of the Universe</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>After an eventful morning R and Ferre decide to recoop in a seemingly picture-perfect neighbourhood before leaving the city. </p><p> </p><p>Tw for violence and gore</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The highway had been a blissful reprieve, what with the fences on either side, keeping the residential hordes at bay. The clear road ahead was clear, only going so far as the horizon line. They’d just rode along for a while and with the wind in his ears, R had almost succeeded into tricking himself that this was just a joy ride.</p><p>When they were kids, they’d go biking down the parkway in the early morning, before the summer sun got too high up in the sky and scorched the pavement. Once they’d stopped at the aviation museum, so that he and Ferre could go around and peer into all the old planes. Ferre had looked around with stars in his eyes, and told their mom—</p><p>Course, that’s where the illusion had fallen apart, and the world had regained its undead stink, its panicked thrum. </p><p>Grantaire wasn’t panicking. Actually, he was feeling less panic than he’d had maybe since this whole thing began. At least now they were out. At least they stood a chance if they ran. At least they had a plan, that’d hopefully take them all the way out to the middle of nowhere. </p><p>For the time being, though, they turned off of the 17 and onto Trim side by side. That was also only for the time being—who knew what hung around in the parking lots, and behind the grosser-than-usual dumpsters. Leaving the highway, meant accepting the loss of visibility, and the feeling of security that came along with it. Ferre had only just barely agreed to this, not having been keen on returning to the neighbourhood they’d only just barely escaped. But the homes out by Trim were larger, and fewer in number, Grantaire had argued, and therefore it wasn’t as dangerous. </p><p>You see, the history of Orleans was fraught with stages, and in more recent years, as the burrows had expanded out into the country, people had started to give a shit about things like personal space—and backyards. </p><p>What had happened as a result was a series of increasingly pristine and picturesque, doll-house-like neighbourhoods, with houses arranged in circles around green spaces and children’s play places. </p><p>They’d creeped Grantaire out even before the apocalypse had descended upon them, allowing the grass to grow long, and the toys left in the sand pit to scatter across the street in the wind. </p><p>“Doesn’t look like anything happened here.” Ferre remarked. </p><p>“Odds that’s true?” </p><p>“It was just an observation.” </p><p>Ferre slowed down, and Grantaire caught himself before he could pull ahead too far. The houses ahead had steep stairs leading to a second-floor entrance, reminiscent of R’s place back in Montreal. Just without the history, charm, or wire. But like, basically the same. Totally. Old-school flair for families of 2, and young execs who enjoy a commute. </p><p>“Doesn’t Marius’ dad still live in one of these neighbourhoods?” Ferre said, carefully swerving to pass a stopped car. </p><p>“Wasn’t it Avalon-Avalon? Like the first one.” </p><p>“Oh, maybe.” </p><p>“I don’t know.” Grantaire shot him a look. “You’re the one he still wanted to talk to after he fucked off, you should know.” </p><p>“Don’t get mad at me for the fact that you never wanted to come.” </p><p>“I wasn’t going to go to his place if he clearly didn’t want me there—he only hung out with the both of us when he lived on Duval cause mom made you take me when you went to the park.” Grantaire snapped. Ferre huffed beside him. </p><p>“Did you ever text him after he moved?”</p><p>“He got a fancy new phone with a fancy new number to match his fancy new house, and cooler new friends.” </p><p>“If you wanted to come, you could’ve asked. You’ve met Marius, he’s like a puppy dog, he wouldn’t have said no.”</p><p>“Well, it’s a two-way street.”</p><p>Grantaire didn’t need to be looking to feel the eye-roll. It came with it’s own bullshit richter scale that went from annoyed, so sizzling-pissed-but-too-civil-to-mention-it. Contrary to Ferre, he’d always been one to air his grievances out loud. Case and point: the Marius debacle. He didn’t even care, really. It’d been years since he’d fucking thought about Marius even in the slightest, but the feelings remained, like leftovers in the back of the fridge, and it was an easy argument to tack onto the end of a thought. </p><p>Ferre didn’t like to remember, which meant that Grantaire had won. Note the change in subject. </p><p>“We should stop here. Regroup. Go through what we have.” Ferre started. </p><p>“Who knows what lies beyond Navan—“ He swerved dangerously close to Ferre. “—Zombie cows! Ooh!” </p><p>“There’s no zombie cows.” Oh, how Ferre seemed to delight in shutting him down. </p><p>“How can you be so sure?” </p><p>“We’d have dealt with zombirds by now.” He replied, jumping rather unceremoniously off his bike as they approached the next picturesque roundabout of houses. R did the same, glancing upwards for a moment to watch two chickadees settle on a power line. As annoying, and alive as always.</p><p>Fucking birds. </p><p>“You just want to pretend you’re half an inch as fancy as Marius. Whatever. Sure.” Grantaire shrugged. No skin off his back—well, he didn’t think so. He could do an actual check if they found a place to stay. Maybe have a shower. Eat some poor gone person’s food. </p><p>Sleep on a bed. </p><p>Suddenly he was sold.</p><p>They tried a couple houses, hopping over fences and tugging on glass back doors to try and get in. The neighbourhood was quiet, sure, but neither of them really wanted to risk beating in any windows for fear of ruining their little slice of paradise. </p><p>It was six houses down until they found a door that would budge—locked but not quite well enough to deter two brothers at the end of the world. They stashed their bikes in the living room, barricaded the back gate with the barbecue, and made haste taking in all of the amenities. Ferre had laid out what they’d already had on the large dining room table, their scarce supplies illuminated by the low-hanging light fixture. Not quite a chandelier, but not exactly your run of the mill standard furnishing, either. Middle-class chic was what sprang to mind, but R had been too busy rifling through the pantry to bother bringing it up. </p><p>There was ravioli and questionable luncheon meat stashed behind a plastic container of little sachets of gravy mix. He wouldn’t have reached for it ordinarily, but desperate times called for desperate sources of protein, and so it all went in the pile. Ferre could sort it out by caloric density or whatever and decide whether or not it was worth keeping. R wasn’t the one with the system, he was just the wholesale provider that kept it running, or whatever the fuck. They’d fallen into some kind of trance-like silence, and so when the kitchen had depleted itself of interest, rather than hover in the dining room he excused himself to the bathroom on the top floor. </p><p>It was a nice bathroom. White tiles with dark blue accents that screamed stock image in a  home catalogue. It was… It wasn’t gross, or anything. Not even bad, really. Grantaire just couldn’t pretend to be impressed, even face to face with the promise of his first shower in over a week. He could be grateful for hot water, but better to end it now if all of a sudden he needed to find himself pleased with home design mediocrity. </p><p>He peeled off his flannel, and the grey shirt underneath that stuck to him like a second skin. Once he’d cleaned off, he could let them soak for a while and hang them up to dry—course, most of these houses had laundry machines, didn’t they? Wasn’t a luxury in a neighbourhood like this one, just a regular amenity. Yet another difference between these houses and the ones they mimicked. </p><p>They were all just the empty promise of a lifestyle. An emptiness which was duly maintained by its inhabitants, Grantaire had noted. Even the houses they only scoped had seemed… Well, empty. Maybe it was just because of the apocalypse, with everyone packing up and getting out of dodge as soon as the bigger cities had started to get sick. But even then, this house hadn’t had any pictures on the wall, no hooks for coats. If it hadn’t been for the food in the cupboard, Grantaire might’ve mistaken their abode for a model home. Course, even model homes had fucking towels on the rack. Not this place, though. </p><p>Grantaire shuffled back out into the hallway, spotting the linen closet at the end of the hallway. He could hear Ferre shuffling about in one of the rooms, no doubt looking for biology textbooks or a fresh set of clothes that read dweeb enough for him not to lose his sense of identity. Grantaire was still banking on the laundry machines. </p><p>He pulled the folding doors open—and yup, that was the ticket. A whole shelf of towels down at the bottom. Right so, these people just hid everything they owned. Whatever. </p><p>He crouched down just as the door behind him opened. </p><p>“Watch your step.” He warned, leaning in to take out an armful. “I found towels if you want to shower later.” </p><p>“Mm.” Ferre replied. </p><p>R wrinkled his nose. “Take that as more of a condition than a suggestion, please take a shower when I’m done.” </p><p>“What was that?” Ferre yelled. </p><p>“What?” Grantaire echoed. </p><p>“Aaaaah.” Not-Ferre replied—and then Grantaire felt something heavy and cold loom towards him. </p><p>He lurched forwards, colliding head first with the second shelf with came out of its filing and tumbled to the floor with a terrible clattering, just as the zombie swatted the air where Grantaire’s bare back would’ve been. </p><p>Good news: it’d missed. </p><p>Bad news: Grantaire had just backed himself into a fucking linen closet. </p><p>“FERRE!” </p><p>The zombie had taken no time to take the space that Grantaire had given up, moving into the linen closet to grab at him in search of life. Grantaire put the fallen shelf between them, wishing—desperately cursing himself for not having done a better sweep. For having let himself get comfortable so quickly, for having left all his fucking layers on the bathroom floor!</p><p>The zombie reached around, snagging its claw like fingers in the mop of R’s hair and yanking him forwards. He hit his makeshift shield head on, bumping into the undead mass, which only stopped for a second before lunging again. </p><p>With no still-standing shelf above above his head, it could get his hands into his scalp, and pull and tear and dismantle him from the top down. </p><p>BANG BANG BANG</p><p>Grantaire felt his world shake. </p><p>BANG BANG BANG</p><p>His heart pounded in his chest. </p><p>BANG BANG BANG</p><p>Ferre came barrelling down the hallway with his hand-axe above his head. </p><p>Grantaire watched the undead’s gaping maw come down upon him just as the side of its skull was bashed open, stopping his descent in a sudden explosion of grey matter. </p><p>It fell to the floor, limp, dragging Grantaire down by the hair with it</p><p>There was not even a half-second of silence before he wretched, shock icing his veins and allowing him to scramble backwards, pulling himself out of the corpse’s clutch and back into the linen closet. </p><p>“Are you okay?” Ferre asked, from just out of sight. </p><p>The answer to that question was no, but the answer Ferre got was another wretch. R could feel the rot on his face, in his hair. He was not okay. </p><p>“I’m alive.” He answered, after a long moment. </p><p>“Did he bite you?” </p><p>“No.” Almost. </p><p>Ferre leaned over, peering down into the linen closet. From where Grantaire sat, he was huge. Bigger even than the zombie had been. He extended a hand, but Grantaire pushed himself up, letting the shelf in his lap clatter to the floor next to the mess they’d made. </p><p>Well, at least it hadn’t gotten on his shirt, right? </p><p>Yeah, that was of very little consolation. He slipped past Ferre, who moved wordlessly to let him by, and locked the bathroom door behind him. </p><p>When he emerged twenty minutes later, Ferre was waiting in the hallway, a towel diligently hung over his arm. Probably keeping watch, just by how casually he played it off, nodding—and then stopping when he saw what R had done. </p><p>“You—“ </p><p>“Yeah. Too easy to grab.” He supplied. He’d found a pair of scissors in the bottom drawer of the sink, and a sense of dread deep down in the pit of his stomach. Years worth of curls piled up in the garbage, and when he finally cleared the condensation from the mirror, he’d found he looked like Ferre. </p><p>At least he was alive, right? </p><p>“We’re even now.” Grantaire continued.</p><p>“I wasn’t keeping score.”</p><p>“Well, we are.” He shrugged, stepping aside from the doorway. “All yours.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Remember when I was like 'ooooh chapters might be coming slower from now on' yeah, well, i wrote all of this yesterday and was up til 2 doing it. IM FUCKING HYPED YALL. i hope you enjoy this chapter as much as i liked writing it--cause let me tell you, folks, it was a blast! lots of fun little moments in here that i hadnt expected.</p><p>next chapter coming... i dont know, honestly, im going against my better judgement and posting this one without having started the next one cause i was just so jazzed about it. so next chapter coming soon, hopefully, depending on how this phone call with my mother goes today! </p><p>regardless, hopefully this will tide you over--and happy world theatre day!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Bonafide Road Trip</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>R and Ferre make it to Casselman, and run into some unexpected survivors. </p><p>TW for guns, but not gun violence, rly.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Grantaire had slept on the couch, keeping from himself one of the two things he’d actually been looking forwards too when Ferre had suggested they stop for the day. That meant that as it stood, it was a zero sum game. Unless you counted the near-death experience and the necessity haircut as two separate entities, in which case he was down a point. </p><p>Anyway, he’d slept rather poorly. </p><p>Ferre had come down at the crack of dawn, tip-toeing in some futile attempt to let R have his rest, but he’d already been up for many hours. Clouds covered the horizon, dulling out any kind of sunrise he might’ve enjoyed, and so he’d just sat and stared out the back doors for a while. Trying to ignore his own unfamiliar reflection in the glass. </p><p>They ate, packed, and left the townhouse properly deserted before the birds had even woken up to sing their morning song. </p><p>Fucking birds. </p><p>Casselman was thirty five minutes out from Orleans, and Ferre’s tentative estimate had put their journey at about… Two, maybe three hours if everything went well. </p><p>And the plan was for things to go well, mind you. As the familiar landmarks faded from the horizon, so would the relatively high threat of hordes. They could hold onto that highway kind of feeling for as long as the farmlands around them stayed just that. Farmlands. Ferre seemed optimistic about it. However, as they left the last of the suburbs behind Grantaire felt uneasy. </p><p>He’d never liked camping. Didn’t really go out in nature much—not even when he’d needed to do studies for still life classes in university. What could you find in the middle of nowhere that wasn’t already a couple clicks away? No, Grantaire liked the noise. He liked talking his chances and the long way home after a long night out, as few and far between as those had become in recent years. Even just from the window in his studio, he preferred the honking and the cigarette smoke, the sound of drunkards looking for grease. The wind whispered like it had a secret to keep. No self-respecting drunk said their secrets aloud at any volume other than SHOUTING. Grantaire appreciated the honesty of the city, silent zombies aside. </p><p>But he kept his mouth shut. </p><p>They biked down the long stretch of Trim road, skirting through roundabouts, past two, three more sets of perfect neighbourhoods. Some of them showed actual signs of disturbance. There were houses with doors left ajar, cars toppled, something burning into long plumes of smoke in the distance. Grantaire biked a little bit faster past these roads, even if it meant biking faster into uncertainty. </p><p>For the most part, it was quiet. They made it all the way through Navan without so much as a peep. Ferre stopped at the last street before the trees petered off into farmland, motioning for R to join him. </p><p>The horde sat right before the bend in the road—and sat was the correct word. They were stationary on the ground, all facing up a driveway into a two-car garage. Grantaire couldn’t make out what was holding their attention, but whatever it was, odds were it wasn’t good news. </p><p>“Thirty-nine.” Ferre mumbled. </p><p>“I didn’t know they could sit.”</p><p>“What are they looking at?” </p><p>“You wanna go investigate?” R offered, quirking an eyebrow at his brother. </p><p>“Fuck no.” </p><p>“Not measured enough of a risk?” </p><p>“Definitely not… I just—“</p><p>“Whatever it is. It’s gotta be…”</p><p>“Something.” Ferre finished. </p><p>Unnerving was what it fucking was. Grantaire knew that much. </p><p>“We should keep going. Casselman before it gets dark, remember?” </p><p>“Right, yeah.” Ferre said, shaking himself out of his curiosity.</p><p>In any other circumstances, there would be no point in stopping in Casselman when there were much smaller, much safer towns on the way with general stores and Shoppers Drug Marts that would likely do the trick. No highways, no fuss. In any other circumstance, Grantaire would agree. </p><p>But this was the apocalypse. </p><p>And Grantaire had made friends with some preppers who owned a shoe store in Casselman. </p><p>That’s not all that they were, though. Not to R. He’d met Jehan and their husband at one of his shows back when Montreal was still habitable. They were the oldest folks in the crowd of university students and bored 20-somethings he tended to attract. A couple of artists themselves who ran a summer co-op retreat on their own little plot of land, and came down to the city every once in a while to see who was up and coming, and make the run of the local anarchist groups. They’d been doing their thing since the 80s, and Grantaire had made the case that if anyone was going to be prepared for the catastrophic, it’d be them. </p><p>He hadn’t thought too much about what they were going to do if he was wrong, but Ferre had very loudly explained the alternatives. </p><p>Casselman was fairly scarcely populated, they could put up camp there, he’d said. Or if nothing else they could stock up and keep moving come morning—destination god knows where.</p><p>Grantaire was holding out hope. The highway was desolate, the forests weren’t ablaze, and some four hours into their bike ride (Ferre hadn’t factored in exhaustion), the Casselman that rolled over the moors seemed peaceful. Empty, albeit, but peaceful. </p><p>Come on, come on, come on, </p><p>Coming off the highway, the glint in Ferre’s eye was immediate. He curved off of the main road, into the parking lot of the Metro right off the highway. That wasn’t part of the plan. Grantaire held back. </p><p>Come on, come on, come on. </p><p>“We can check it out later. We should check out the compound first.” </p><p>“I just wanna take a look.” Ferre threw over his shoulder, cutting around the herd of grocery carts, let loose to roll around as they pleased. </p><p>Grantaire sighed, peering once down the long road they needed to be heading down. The carnage in view was minimal. Something smelled in the distance, but for the most part things were just… Empty. </p><p>Ferre was cycling up to the windows at the front of the building. Grantaire finally obliged, gliding forwards to meet him where the pavement raised into curb at the end of the parking lot. It was pitch black inside the building, but the sliding doors had been propped open with the flower display, letting in a steady breeze, and the only light besides what came from the windows. From where he stood, Grantaire could make out empty shelves, deserted cash registers… Not much to it. Like everything else, it had been picked clean when things had started going south. He didn’t know what the hell Ferre could possibly be expecting. Metro didn’t keep special stocks for only the most brilliant who could crack the puzzle cipher to the safe. Inside: a whole freezer’s worth of hot pockets and cubed spinach. You know, for iron. </p><p>His stomach grumbled something fierce. Once they checked out the compound, they could stop, and eat. He rang his bell, and Ferre sprang back in surprise.  </p><p>“I didn’t hear you come over.” </p><p>“Yeah, well. D’you see anything?” </p><p>“Nothing up front, but maybe in the back…” He peeled away from the glass. </p><p>“Compound next?” Grantaire redirected, his foot jiggling the chain on his bike. Come on, come on, come on. </p><p>“And if there’s no one there, we’ll find a place to stay for the night.” </p><p>“If there’s no one there, we can just stay there.” </p><p>“Yeah—I mean, there may be better, higher-up places.” Ferre offered, bouncing down from the curb to join him on the flat pavement.</p><p>“Did you see the Novotel coming off the highway?” </p><p>“It’s a bit big to secure.” </p><p>“I don’t know, if we can secure one room next to a stairwell. It could be fairly… I don’t know.” </p><p>Course, Ferre was right—and Grantaire knew he wouldn’t be able to sleep knowing there could be something in the room next door, seeking them out through the walls like a hunting dog. He probably wouldn’t sleep regardless, even if he knew their place was clear. That worried him. How long would he be able to keep it together without a full night’s sleep? How long could he push forwards when he felt like he could hear his bones creaking with every movement? </p><p>It worried him, but he tried not to think about it. </p><p>“I don’t know, either.” Ferre said, glancing at R as they fell back into step. Or peddle, rather. “But I also don’t expect to really need to—“</p><p>BLAM! The front windows of the Metro exploded outwards, showering shattered glass into the parking lot. They were nearly halfway across the lot, and Grantaire could still see the flecks landing at his feet, reflecting light into his eyes. </p><p>From inside the building, dark silhouettes rushed out, jumping out of the barren windows, guns at the ready. Grantaire didn’t see how many there were, he could only see the rifles. </p><p>They hadn’t run into people yet. Hadn’t heard from a single neighbour, or old classmate. It’d been so long that Grantaire had started to forget that there were other people out there. </p><p>“WHO THE FUCK ARE YOU?” Bellowed one of the silhouettes, a man who approached them, gun drawn. He had a black hood zipped up all the way over his face. R could only barely make out eyes very much alive beneath a thin layer of mesh. </p><p>“This is one’s ours.” Said the second, scrawnier. She fell behind, waiting. </p><p>“What’ve you got in those bags? You don’t think you can come into our town and not pay the toll, do you?” Cackled the third. “Times are hard.” He broke off to the side, drawing his gun with a heavy click. It boomed in the quiet of the parking lot. </p><p>Ferre was breathing heavily beside him, hands coming up slowly to show he meant no threat. He was giving in immediately. Reaching around to pull his bag to the front. Grantaire kept his grip steady and firm on his handlebars. He didn’t know what else he expected. This was bad. They already didn’t have enough food to keep the both of them going at this pace, let alone to pay a fucking toll. This was horde surrounding the house level bad. This was last empty convenience store within running range is fully empty now kind of bad. This was three vandals with guns level bad. </p><p>Fuck. </p><p>“We’ve got… I have some beans, here. I’ve got… Pasta sauce, as well, and corn. You can take those. Yeah.” Ferre bumbled, zipping, unzipping. “But times are hard, you know? For us too. Just let us keep a bit.”</p><p>Grantaire starred directly down at the ground in front of him. He couldn’t bike away, not with… If only one of them was armed, he could ride right at them, try and knock it away. </p><p>But there was a gun at his temple, a steady pressure. </p><p>“What do you have?” </p><p>Grantaire glanced to the side, the scrawny one had come up next to him in the interim. Her hood was slightly unzipped now, and he could see bags under her eyes, darkening her pale skin. Same, he thought, same. </p><p>“Hey—“ She prodded him again. “—What do you have?” </p><p>“I don’t fuckin’ know—“</p><p>“Open your bag.” </p><p>“Do it, R.” Ferre said. “Don’t be difficult.” </p><p>He wasn’t being fucking difficult. He didn’t want to have to scavenge again. Fuck it all, really, if this was how is was all going to end, just pull the switch there and then. Are you there, God? It’s me Grantaire. He didn’t wanna argue with some hungry asshole teenagers who thought they were the fucking militia over a can of beans. How fucking bleak was that? </p><p>Grantaire sighed and pulled his backpack into his lap. The first can in reach had a tab on top—of course it had to be the fucking ravioli, as if this whole thing couldn’t get any worse. </p><p>“Nice.” Said the girl, plucking the can from his outstretched hand. </p><p>“Better fuckin’ enjoy that…” He muttered. </p><p>She shrugged, tossing it over his head to her companion with the bag. He watched it soar, and then crash to the ground as it was pierced-through with…</p><p>An arrow? </p><p>“HEY!” Bellowed the sudden fourth. “You fuckers get out of here—those two are with me.” </p><p>In an instant, they were back-pedalling, this gruff sounding Robin Hood struck with purpose and fear. Even with their guns. R could see it in the way the girl’s eyes widened. The way the other two stumbled back. He wondered if hers had been loaded at all. </p><p>They all ran, back towards whatever lay behind the darkened Metro, and Grantaire felt a grip on his arm. </p><p>“Go—“ Urged Ferre, his eyes just as wild. “Go—go—get behind the subway.” </p><p>“Hold on—“ </p><p>“What do you mean hold on, there’s a guy with a fucking crossbow—“ </p><p>Grantaire turned to look, and… </p><p>Oh, come on. </p><p>He threw his hands up into the air, and along with it, the first joyous noise he’d made in eleven days. </p><p>“BAHOREEEEEEEEL!!”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>hi! thanks for reading!  I promise you're actually gonna get jehan and bahorel in the next chapter, not just moody R. there will be little respites in all of this i pinky promise</p><p>anyway, again, thank u for reading. i hope you're all still enjoying this. as i go on, I'm having a good time, but i worry sometimes that im the only one. i know myself and my anxiety would appreciate a comment if you're enjoying yourself, but also dont feel like you have to! i was a silent reader for many years, and i respect that hustle, in these trying times u gotta do what u gotta do</p><p>next chapter in one or two days hopefully, as i have actually started it before uploading this! woo go me</p><p>okay love u all, stay safe out there</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. The Most Popular Shoe Store in Casselman</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Ferre and R spend a night at The Compound, and Jehan makes a broadcast.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“That was my ravioli, you dick!”</p>
<p>“Grantaire, you’re alive!” Bahorel laughed, loud and bass-y as he reached back and strung his crossbow between his shoulder blades.</p>
<p>Oh what a guy, what an absolutely stellar man. R could’ve cried there and then. In fact—it wasn’t too late. </p>
<p>He ditched his bike and a slightly confused Ferre and made a bee-line for his friend. Bahorel was just as beefy as he’d always been, a little scruffy around the chin, and tall even for a tall person like Grantaire. He’d always had the body of a boxer for as long as Grantaire had known him, but apparently since their last meeting, he’d taken to the finer areas of aggression. </p>
<p>Crossbow. What a choice. </p>
<p>R ran forwards, jumping right as he collided with the taller man, who obliged through years of good practice, and good nature, catching him for a moment before returning him to the ground. </p>
<p>“It’s good to see you, man. Well, most of you—god, not the hair! Anything but the hair!” He moaned, clapping R on the back. </p>
<p>Grantaire shirked, making some kind of a teenage face of embarrasment. He’d forgotten about his impromptu haircut. That was one of the things about the apocalypse. When the sickness had arrived, he’d taught himself to stop touching anything above the shoulders. When he got back into the rhythm of the long and terrible days, he fell back into those habits. The world going on inside his head somehow completely detached from the rest of his body. </p>
<p>“Yeah, well, casualties what can I say? Speaking of—is everything…? Are you both—I mean, Jehan?” </p>
<p>“Oh Jay’s still kickin’, yeah, not to fret. They were the one who heard the shrapnel earlier, sent me down to check in. Those kids have been nothing but trouble since they let themselves out of their bunkers.” He sighed, shaking his head. His crossbow rattled against his back. </p>
<p>Behind them, Ferre rang his bell. </p>
<p>Right. Everything was complicated, and he wasn’t just reconnecting with his old friend. Right. </p>
<p>“Uh—“ </p>
<p>“You must be Bahorel. From the compound.” Ferre supplied. He’d hopped off his own bike, and was walking over, hand extended like this was a fucking interview. Bahorel took it in stride, meeting him halfway to catch his hand in a clasp more akin to comrades meeting in a bar, then anything anyone who’d ever set foot in an office building would do. It resonated like the rifle from before, but this time he felt the tandem exhale, as Ferre loosened up a bit as well. </p>
<p>“Please, Bahorel from the compound’s my christian name, you can just call me Bahorel. Or Baz, if that’s your poison.” </p>
<p>“Don’t—“ Grantaire stopped himself. Ferre glanced his way, raising an eyebrow. “Nothing. Don’t worry about it.” </p>
<p>Bahorel’s laughter boomed. </p>
<p>“Well, come on then. Jay’ll be waiting.” </p>
<p>They hadn’t been far from the compound at all—and yes, compound was the right word for it. </p>
<p>When Grantaire had first made his way to Casselman for a summer retreat, he’d walked down the main road from the bus stop in the parking lot behind the Tim Hortons to the shoestore with the half-barrel warehouse in the back. It was an unassuming building from the front. Two stories all in red brick, though the wooden panels under the shop windows had been painted a beautiful lilac colour. In the window there’d been shoes of all kinds, work boots, authentic moccasins from local artists, peach pumps with tassels on the back, and wooden clogs in every size and disposition. Highlighted by the sunlight passing through, there was a mural on the back wall, bright and buoyant. He’d fallen in love with the place from the moment he’d seen in, and venturing it, he’d only continued to fall. </p>
<p>Now—the property was almost unrecognizable. It extended far beyond the sidewalk, a tall wooden wall cutting into the middle of the street, blocking everything but the top of the building from view. </p>
<p>It was painted lilac, too, but it still struck Grantaire with that unmistakeable feeling of… Different. Obviously things had changed, but since they’d left the house, Grantaire had almost convinced himself he could ignore it. This was the pointed reminder that the apocalypse starting didn’t suddenly mean that the places he had been, and the people he’d known would stop existing all of a sudden. The thought was both comforting and sickening at once, though he smiled as Bahorel knocked on the wall. It didn’t budge. </p>
<p>“Oh Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down your hair!” He hollered, his hands cupped around his mouth like a town crier. </p>
<p>From atop the structure, a head! All crowned in red and gray, Jehan with a bundle of rope in their arms. Who gasped as they threw it down. </p>
<p>“Do my eyes deceive me, or am I seeing double?” They called, Grantaire waved. </p>
<p>“Hello!” Ferre offered, looking at Grantaire, and then waving as well. </p>
<p>“R! You didn’t tell me you had a twin!”</p>
<p>“We’re not—he’s my older brother.” R supplied, huffing. He could see Jehan’s head tilt even from all the way on the ground. It was laced with uncertainty—thankfully, Bahorel stepped in. </p>
<p>“Let’s continue this inside, shall we?” </p>
<p>Bahorel climbed up first, scaling the wall like a damn pirate boarding a navy ship mid-battle. It was glorious, really. Ferre was next. He secured his foot in the loop left at the bottom of the rope, and ascended upright. Bahorel hauled over the side, and then it was just R. Well, R and the bikes, which went next, clattering as  the winch groaned. One the rope was thrown back down, R scaled the wall himself, taking Bahorel’s hand before falling into Jehan’s arms once he was at the top. </p>
<p>“If I’d have known you were gonna stop by, I’d have put a chicken to roast on the barbecue.” Jehan said, pressing a kiss to both of Grantaire’s cheeks before he could pull away. </p>
<p>“I’d have let you know if I’d thought to pack a phone charger.” Grantaire replied. “Local hooligans did the trick in announcing our arrival, though, didn’t they?” </p>
<p>Jehan let out an exaggerated sigh as they shook their head. </p>
<p>“I hope they didn’t cause you too much trouble.” </p>
<p>“They had us in a pretty tight spot for a second.” Ferre offered, though he waved off the thought. “But uh, Baz here did—“</p>
<p>Grantaire snorted, cutting him off, just as Jehan reached over to smack Bahorel on the arm. </p>
<p>“What? What’d I do?” Bahorel whined holding his wound, though he grinned all the same. Jehan rolled their eyes, then turned to Ferre. </p>
<p>“No one actually calls him, Baz. He just likes to try it on the newbies whenever they first come. Bahorel’s more than fine.” </p>
<p>“I’m thinking about Bad Baz next time.” Bahorel riffed, bending down to pick up Grantaire’s bike. He hoisted it over his shoulder, and motioned for Ferre to follow. “C’mon, let’s put away the bikes, and then I can give you the tour of the place.” </p>
<p>“As penance.” Jehan added. </p>
<p>“As penance.” Bahorel echoed. </p>
<p>“As penance.” Grantaire confirmed. </p>
<p>“Right…” Ferre said, picking up his bike as well. </p>
<p>Bahorel lead him down the stairs at the far end of the wall, and Grantaire watched as they disappeared, only to reappear down below, and then walk off into the half-barrel where the wood shop was. Or, at least, had been. Jehan was looking at him funny, he could tell. They did that a lot, even before. They’d stand and watch, to see if they could figure out what they needed to know without any interference. It was the same with their paintings. Jehan did as much staring at the canvas as they did actual painting. </p>
<p>Grantaire had always preferred to go as quickly as possible, and clean-up or cover-over afterwards. Ask forgiveness, not permission or whatever. It’d come up every single critique during his one year in university. “Grantaire paints with a reckless abandon that does not always benefit his work.” or “Grantaire could benefit from a little more attention to technique.” </p>
<p>Jehan was the opposite, which was why he’d come to work with them in the first place. Grantaire didn’t know if he liked being looked at like a painting, but then that intensity was gone, and Jehan found their furrowed brow, hooking themselves around his elbow so they could walk arm in arm towards the opposite set of stairs. </p>
<p>“He’s the one you told me about, right?” </p>
<p>“The one and only.” Grantaire supplied. </p>
<p>“I thought you two didn’t really…” </p>
<p>“We were both back home when everything happened.” </p>
<p>Jehan nodded sagely. They understood quickly, that was the beauty of all that observation. </p>
<p>The compound, as Grantaire had been calling it brain-side, was much of the same as before. The barrel was still the wood shop, though most of the wood had been cleared out to make the wall and secure the back alleys. The garden behind the shop had been expanded, and the small plot of grass in front of the barrel torn up to make room for tomato plants and squash. The lattice was a still a criss-cross rainbow, though, and on the back wall of the shoe store still stood the mural from Grantaire’s summer. </p>
<p>They found Bahorel and Ferre there, staring up at the long portrait, faded as it was. It brought a smile to Grantaire’s face just looking at it, and he remembered the summer heat, and star-gazing on top of the hydraulic lift. </p>
<p>That was gone now, and Jehan had begun to discuss dinner plans. </p>
<p>“Combeferre, have you ever made homemade pasta?” Jehan asked, tilting their head to one side. </p>
<p>“Can’t say I have.” </p>
<p>“Well, that settles it—you’re in the kitchen with me. Bahorel dear, if you and R could gather some spinach and tomatoes from the garden.” </p>
<p>“Aye, aye, cap’n.” Bahorel replied, jerking his head for Grantaire to follow him towards the tools shelf next to the side of the brick house. As Ferre passed, he cast Grantaire a look. He couldn’t quite tell what it was asking, nor did he care to figure it out right then. They’d just spent the last 11 days in solitude together. He was grateful for a spade, and work without imminent fear of death. </p>
<p>They picked tomatoes and dug up weeds until the sun began to set, and the window at the back of the shop creaked open, to announce the imminent starting of dinner, and to please pack it in and clean-up before the sun set too far. </p>
<p>R put away his gloves and narrowly avoided being hosed down by Bahorel as they cleaned themselves off at the side of the house. Inside, it was warm—the stove hot with boiling water and simmering sauce. Ferre was stood at the counter cutting tomatoes, though his shirt bore the evidence of pastas past, and he was still speckled with flour. </p>
<p>He was passed off two steaming plates of ravioli, and he smiled, though no one was looking at him to notice it. Bahorel was busy wiping the flour from Jehan’s face. They’d managed to get even dirtier than Ferre—and the people in the garden needed to clean up, huh? One by one, they congregated in the dining room. R found his usual spot first, then Bahorel filed in, Ferre carried in a large bowl of salad, and Jehan waltzed in a moment later, though before they sat, they turned their attention to the radio high-up on top of the china cabinet. </p>
<p>Grantaire remembered it from his summer there. It was an old CB radio that Bahorel had kept from his golden days as a trucker. They hadn’t used it at all that summer, but someone had commented on it, asked if it worked. It did, Jehan had said, they kept it around for ‘the just in case’. The case, as it happened, had finally cracked. </p>
<p>The long coiled cable hung over the side of the cabinet, and Jehan held the microphone to their mouth. </p>
<p>“Sun’s setting here in Casselman, and we’ve got two unexpected visitors all in one piece. Is everyone doing alright out there? ABC do you read?” </p>
<p>“ABC?” Ferre asked, but Jehan held a finger up, requesting silence. The radio crackled, until finally a voice came from the other end. </p>
<p>“ABC here, we read you loud and clear Casselman. Glad to hear you’re in good company, over.” </p>
<p>Bahorel grinned as Grantaire leaned over, a solid question mark on his face. </p>
<p>“ABC’s one of the groups we frequented in Montreal.” Bahorel whispered. “They found our frequency a couple days into this, and we’ve been keeping in contact since. Looking out for each other, you know?” </p>
<p>Grantaire nodded, and watched as Jehan pulled a pad of paper from one of the shelves of the china cabinet, they scanned the page until seemingly finding what they were looking for and clicking their mic back on again. </p>
<p>“Nothing coming or going on our front, but coming out of Ottawa, our guests spotted a horde of thirty-five or so on the outskirts.” </p>
<p>“Thirty-nine.” Ferre mumbled. </p>
<p>“Coming or going? Over.” Asked the radio. </p>
<p>“Sitting.” </p>
<p>A long pause. Jehan continued.</p>
<p>“Have you spotted anything like that on your end?” </p>
<p>“Not at all—though I’ll double check with the more recent surveilling teams. Two clusters on our end, one down by the Old Port, which is problematic, and another coming via the main bridge. Over.” </p>
<p>“Do you think they’ll pose a problem?”</p>
<p>“Not right now, but maybe in the coming weeks. Over.” <br/>“And how are you all holding up?” </p>
<p>“Pretty well, our restock scavenge yesterday was very successful. How’s the garden? Over.” </p>
<p>“We’re just about to tuck into some fresh squash ravioli.” </p>
<p>“Glad to hear it. Keep your eyes and ears open, and as long as the sky hasn’t fallen down on us, we’ll be right here at sunset tomorrow. Over.” </p>
<p>“Sounds good, Enj. Casselman out.” </p>
<p>“ABC out.” </p>
<p>Jehan left the mic to hang in its rightful place, and sat down in their spot next to Bahorel. Grantaire had no qualms about this new part of their routine, and he didn’t hesitate to dig in as soon as Jehan and Bahorel started eating. Out of the corner of his eye, he could still see Ferre looking at the radio. Grantaire kicked him under the table, and he jolted, shooting him a glare as he sank back in the present moment. Better. </p>
<p>Grantaire sank into the moment as well. He sat a little more comfortably as Jehan and Bahorel recounted stories of the summer workshops while they ate. He let his shirt get a little wetter without caring whether or not he’d be cold later while he did the dishes. He spent a little longer with his eyes closed as he sat on the edge of the bed he’d claimed for the night, the same one that he always picked. The room was orange—so really it was a no brainer. </p>
<p>After dinner, Ferre had asked Bahorel to show him how the radio worked, and they’d holed themselves back up in the dining room, dragging the chairs from around the table over to the china cabinet. </p>
<p>Grantaire found Jehan in the little studio, stood in front of the canvas like he’d seen them do many times before. He leaned in the doorway, doing his own observing for a moment before knocking quietly on the doorframe. </p>
<p>“Dinner was great.”</p>
<p> “Bahorel told me about the ravioli. He felt bad.” </p>
<p>“It was for the greater good.” Grantaire shrugged. “I was wondering if you had any clippers?” </p>
<p>Jehan only glanced over their shoulder then.</p>
<p>“Are you planning on buzzing all of it?” </p>
<p>“I was thinking about it.” </p>
<p>“Did something happen?” </p>
<p>They said it like a parent—though they’d made it clear time and time again that they were not the type to ever have kids. Even then, Grantaire had always joked that they basically ran a summer orphanage, taking in all the scraggly and dehydrated punks who just wanted to make things for a while.</p>
<p>Had something happened? Yes. Fuck. So much had happened that Grantaire didn’t even know where to start, except that when he closed his eyes, he could feel those dead fingers on his scalp. He’d hadn’t really been that close to one of them before that. Not for long enough to look it in the face, to feel its presence before it even attacked. It had once been a person, and now it was undead, and Grantaire was still a person but he might as well be undead with the way he woke up in the mornings. The end of the world was like one terrible nightmare of a hangover. </p>
<p>Finally, he nodded. </p>
<p>“I had a close call last night. It grabbed me.” He flexed and released his hands at his side as Jehan set down their brush, walking over to pull Grantaire into their arms. He breathed heavy against the contact. It was easy to forget the importance of warmth, when everything was so, so sharp. “I feel like it’s short enough as it is, but I hate catching my reflexion like this.” </p>
<p>He felt Jehan nod against his chest. </p>
<p>“You know earlier when I said..?”</p>
<p>“I know we look alike. I know.”</p>
<p>“Is that why?” </p>
<p>“Part of it.” He supplied, and when Jehan pulled back, they were kind enough to believe him as far as their eyes. They nodded, observing the situation, right back into painting mode. Their lips pursed as they admired the terrible clearance section canvas that R made. </p>
<p>“I can give you a mohawk, if you’d like.” </p>
<p>“Ugh, god, the upkeep.” Grantaire laughed. Better. </p>
<p>“Mm, of course, hair in the time of zombies… A tragedy… How about I even it out a little? Some more off the sides, leave the little bit you had on top, that way if it gets to be too long just—“ They popped their lips. “—put a hat on it.”</p>
<p>Well, good thing Ferre had thrown him that hat. He nodded, lips pressed together.</p>
<p>“Sold.” </p>
<p>By the time Jehan had finished, the orange room was cool with nighttime air, and Grantaire could feel his eyelids growing heavier and heavier as he padded across the room to his bed. He was going to call it a night right then and there, when there was a knock on the door. He waited, and Ferre opened it a crack. He could see him silhouetted in the light of the hallway, running a hand back and up through his hair, flush and… Nervous. Excited? Fuck Grantaire was tired. </p>
<p>“We don’t have to talk about this til the morning.” He started, and already R knew he didn’t want to hear it. He willed his brain to sleep, but the light was shining right into his eyes, and he was at the mercy of the crack in the door. He heard Ferre let out a long breath. “But I think we should go to Montreal.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>this chapter is extra long because that's what happens when you let me have more than two characters! Jehan AND bahorel, that's just too much. Stoppit </p>
<p>(I wont. i love them.)</p>
<p>A super special thank you to itsallaboutme11 for the nice comments that got me out of my writing funk! this chapter's for you!</p>
<p>I just put out a lil enjoltaire one-shot, thats not at all set in this universe. its got open mics and happy endings so if that's your jam, you can click through to my profile and check it out! </p>
<p>anyway, I hope you enjoyed the chapter! I had fun writing it!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. La frontière™</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Ferre and R make it to the Quebec border and designated rest stops don't exactly go as planned.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Grantaire hadn’t left the compound without a fight. </p><p>Ferre’s words had weighed heavy on him all night, robbing him once more of the opportunity for a good night’s sleep. Finally, they’d found a place—a safe place where they could stay, and be welcomed, and prepared for whatever came next, and Ferre just wanted to up and leave after not even twelve hours there? He just didn’t get it, did he. He couldn’t even begin to understand what that place meant, and Grantaire could see it just by the look on his face when he’d finally dragged his sorry ass down for breakfast the next morning. </p><p>Ferre looked antsy. He stirred his oatmeal too long, too loudly, as if that alone would incite the conversation he’d been waiting for. It wouldn’t. Grantaire took his damn time, going back upstairs with a cup of coffee to sit with Jehan in their studio for a while, leaving Ferre to stew. </p><p>In the end, it had been tense. Ferre’s interest in the radio last night had ended with a call directly to the ABC. Beyond being an anarchist group, before the world had come to an end, they’d run out of McGill university, they still did, technically, at least what was left of it… Montreal, as it were, wasn’t doing too hot, what with the absurd amount of undead it’d managed to rack up since the sickness had made its way around. It made Grantaire think, if he hadn’t gone back home… Would he…? </p><p>Anyway. They were holding out, but not for long. </p><p>The plan was that they had a boat—one of their member’s dad’s had been a fisherman, with his rig tied up at the marina. They’d been sneaking down to make repairs and installations on it since things had calmed down a bit, and soon enough, it would be ready enough to carry a whole fleet of wannabe-anarchists down the St Lawrence to no-man’s land. Where hopefully, they could start anew. </p><p>Ferre’s eyes had glinted as he spoke. “Something new” tickled him in a way that R hadn’t seen even once since he’d made his way back to Ottawa. It held the promise of an actual tomorrow, a dystopian society held up by the fervour of its own inhabitants. </p><p>Ferre’s first year of high school, Grantaire had watched in jealousy as he and the rest of the IB kids packed up for their yearly team-building camping trip to the middle of nowhere. Well, maybe that was an overstatement. They sent a bunch of nerds out into the woods, and upon return it was all they talked about for weeks. Kayaking, campfires and experiments, all based around the idea of bringing them closer as a collective. It was important that they learn to lean on each other, cause come exam season, there’d be no one else who really understood the stress. It was a comrades in arms sort of deal, and Ferre had relished every single weekend, coming back a little more freckle-dusted than when he’d departed, and bearing stories to share around the dinner table. </p><p>R had never gone, didn’t ever make it into the program, and so he’d resented it.</p><p>Casselman was the closest thing he had to camping weekends, but Ferre couldn’t see it. Just because the place belonged to someone else, because the garden was only so big, because they couldn’t expect these lovely hosts to have the stores to take care of a party twice its original size. </p><p>Just because it was the apocalypse didn’t mean they were allowed to be burdens. </p><p>Grantaire had acquiesced, biting back remarks on the condition that they stayed one more night. He didn’t bother telling Ferre that he could go on alone, that he felt no guilt in staying with Jehan and Bahorel because he knew that they wanted him around. An extra pair of hands was always worth the extra mouth to feed. </p><p>They left in due time, Bahorel sending them off with a small hand-crank radio he’d dug up from the back of the workshop so that they could keep in touch, and food enough to make up for what those kids had stolen. </p><p>Ferre was most pleased about the radio. He’d spoken with the ABC again on their second night, drawing the conversation out long after dinner was finished, and Grantaire had given up interest and gone out to the backyard to smoke with Jehan and Bahorel. He resented the way his brother talked about the future, how he saw this plan so clearly when in fact nothing could actually be guaranteed. Best not to think about it if he was going to make it out the door come morning. </p><p>Grantaire didn’t let Ferre see his tearful goodbye. He was still standing on top of the wooden barricade while Ferre untied their bikes down below. He held onto Jehan, truly feeling the end of the world in all its blunt force, before letting Bahorel lower him down the wall. They knew better than to make a pit-stop at the Metro, and Grantaire side-eyed the convenience store as they passed, no-longer feeling the safety he’d felt behind the lilac walls. </p><p>The highway was an unpleasant familiarity. </p><p>They rode mostly in silence, save for Ferre’s phone alarm, which went off every hour on the hour to make them stop and stretch. The brief respite of electricity had given him enough literal and figurative power to grasp onto the threads of redundant leadership he’d once prided himself on holding so firmly. It was annoying, to say the least, and really fucking obnoxious to say the most. Grantaire half expected his marimba ringtone to bring forth a horde from the woods while they stopped to scarf down canned corn and bread, but nothing ever happened. They rode, they stopped, they rested, they kept going, and before they knew it, a familiar blue sign crested the horizon. </p><p>“Bienvenue au Quebec.” Grantaire noted, pulling to a stop along the side of the road. “Quick, quick, take a picture of me so we don’t forget this moment.”</p><p>Ferre rolled his eyes, coming to a halt as well to check his phone. </p><p>“There should be a rest stop a little further up ahead.” </p><p>“Did you take it?” Grantaire insisted, and still grinning wide for Ferre to see when he tore his attention away from the map. </p><p>“I’m not going to take a picture of you.” </p><p>“What about now?” Grantaire raised his arms above his head. “I can get off the bike, if you want.” </p><p>“You’re being an idiot.”</p><p>“What could you possibly need all that storage for?” </p><p>“If we keep going, we should get there in maybe ten minutes.” </p><p>“No, seriously, hey, tell me. Are you still storing fucking tinder in the apocalypse? Are you digitally downloading every single fucking map? What is it? Can you not connect to the fucking ICloud?” </p><p>“I get it, you’re surly.” </p><p>“I’m not surly.” Grantaire spat. “You’re the one who dragged me all this way and won’t even take a fucking picture at the border.” </p><p>“There—fine.” Ferre raised his phone for a second mid-sentence, before shoving it back into his pocket.</p><p>It was the middle of the day, so there was no flash, no sound of a non-existent shutter closing—and Grantaire couldn’t actually tell whether or not he’d just been humoured. What he could tell, though, was that Ferre was biking away again. Relentlessly pedalling into the beautiful Quebec landscape. </p><p>He watched him go for a second, half-tempted to hurl some kind of insult at him. Wasn’t all this physical exercise supposed to make them feel better? Ease the soul? Course, road trips were also the number two leading cause of sibling disputes worldwide, and there was no accounting for the effect the apocalypse had on all that. </p><p>A flock of birds erupted from trees by the road, and R followed them across the skyline before kicking his pedals back into gear and chasing after Ferre. </p><p>Fucking birds. </p><p>He’d been right, the rest stop was barely ten minutes away, and when it crested the horizon, Grantaire was grateful to know that this was as far as their journey would take them for the day. By the looks of it, it was at least sturdy enough to keep them safe for the night. The windows in the front were still held intact, and the parking lot was devoid of cars, save for a minivan parked at the other end. They’d steer clear of it, pick clean any vending machines on the inside, and find an office to hole up in. </p><p>It went unsaid at this point. Somehow the two of them had managed to find some kind of a system in the apocalypse. It had only come at the cost of leaving Casselman, and the last two friends R would maybe ever see. But no, it was fine. He was grateful to be falling back in line next to his brother. Sure. Couldn’t have picked a better travel companion. </p><p>As Ferre dismounted in the parking lot, he drew his hatchet—which Grantaire had seen in the side pocket of his backpack, glinting in the sunlight the entire ride. He’d barely parted with it since that night in the suburbs, always keeping it close. There was no equivalent for Grantaire. Maybe the little whittling pocketknife Jehan had given him, but he didn’t intend on using it. Not that it’d do much fucking good, really. A stab or a slice wasn’t as important if the person in question couldn’t feel pain. Or at least didn’t react to it. </p><p>There was no way of knowing, was there, just how much person was left over on the inside? </p><p>Grantaire didn’t like to think about it. But he did. All the time. He thought about it as Ferre approached the windows in the front of the building, shielding his eyes with one hand to cut out the light. Grantaire fell into step behind him, picking absentmindedly at the hanging thread on the cuff of his flannel. Slow deterioration. Hm. </p><p>Ferre advanced towards the sliding glass doors—which had long since stopped sliding on command, but he had no trouble prying them open with his hands. Grantaire remembered a time when Ferre would’ve rolled his eyes at him for putting his hands all over the glass, a habit he’d picked up from their mother on the pretence of also watching out for the cleanliness of their house. </p><p>The carpets in the tourist centre were filthy. The short-term apocalypse had aided in letting the dust settle onto pretty much everything, and where there was no dust, thick black tracks of gore streaked to and fro. The silence made that fact that something had obviously taken place there all the more unnerving. </p><p>Grantaire had half a mind to ask if they could keep going—but Ferre had already spotted the vending machines in the far corner, wedged between rows of plastic waiting-room seating. Waiting for what? R didn’t know. </p><p>“D’you have a screwdriver?” Ferre asked, pulling his backpack to his front, so he could unzip it and rifle through the contents. </p><p>“Why the fuck would I have a screwdriver—why the fuck do we need a screwdriver?” </p><p>“So I can open the front panel?” </p><p>“Oh you mean the glass?” Grantaire scoffed. “You’re the one with the hatchet, man, just fuckin’ give ‘er.” </p><p>“Would you just check?” </p><p>“Here.” Grantaire walked over, hand-outstretched. “Just give it to me, I’ll do it.” </p><p>“Just check.” </p><p>“I don’t have a fucking screwdriver, fucking give me the hatchet, will you?” </p><p>Ferre’s fingers twitched where they were wrapped tightly around the silver handle, he had the look on his face that told R he was willing to fight this one out, if he had too—it was stupid. All of it was. The fact that Ferre insisted on his checking even if Grantaire fucking knew there was nothing there, he’d  checked his bag before leaving, too. He wouldn’t have just overlooked a fucking screwdriver. All his worldly possessions were on his back. </p><p>Grantaire lunged forwards, reaching for the hatchet. Ferre spun out of his way just in time, his backpack banging against the glass front of the vending machine, and rattling the contents inside. A single packets of hickory sticks fell down to the bottom—and before R could make anymore bad decisions, there was a knock on the desk to their right. </p><p>They both whipped around, and there, silhouetted in the light of the sliding doors, was the girl from the Metro parking lot. </p><p>“Hey uh—assholes? Maybe let’s not make a bunch of noise in the building you didn’t even bother to clear?” </p><p>“What?!” Grantaire blurted. Yeah, that was about the best he was going to be able to manage, given the shock, and the reminder of the gun against his temple, cold and certain like the bottom of a glass. </p><p>Thankfully, Ferre had half a mind to step between him and the girl, hatchet raised in self-defence. What good it would do against a gun, he had no idea, but for a split-second before the girl responded, he appreciated it. </p><p>“SHHHHH.” She insisted, holding a finger to her lips. She jerked her head to the side and fled out the sliding glass doors, disappearing from view towards the side of the building. </p><p>“This is probably a trap.” Ferre said. </p><p>“I’m gonna follow her.” Grantaire replied, pushing past him. </p><p>“Like hell you are—“ </p><p>“Well we’re gonna have to leave this building eventually.”</p><p>“Then I’ll go first.” Ferre ordered. “Just in case.” </p><p>“Right, so they can kill us off one by one.” He shook his head. “Let’s just… See. Benefit of the doubt.” </p><p>“This isn’t the time for benefit of the doubt.” </p><p>“Well.” Grantaire shrugged, and without Combeferre in his way, there was no one to stop his walk towards the door. “Stay here and ruins both of our odds, then.” </p><p>He heard the soft footsteps behind him as he carefully made his way out the front door. Grantaire peered out from behind the doorframe in the direction the girl had gone, and then back at Ferre to shake his head. Nothing to be seen. </p><p>Ferre took the lead, hatchet as the ready, and even though it’d been his idea, Grantaire found his fingers itching for the knife in his pocket. It wouldn’t matter if that gang of kids was waiting for them on the other side of the wall, but it was something to hold onto. It fit nicely in his palm, it let him round the corner. </p><p>The girl was stood on her tip-toes peering into a window at the back of the building. When she noticed their arrival, she stepped back, motioning for them to look for themselves. </p><p>The window was grimy save for a patch of clear glass where the girl had wiped away the dust. Grantaire had to bend down to see into it, as worthwhile as it was. Were it not for the dim light of the day, the horde in the back office could’ve been mistaken for mannequins, with how still they were. They stood, all in a row, facing the wall where a door lead further into the building. Waiting. </p><p>“Shit.” Grantaire said. </p><p>“Nine.” Ferre replied. </p><p>“I don’t know what they’re doing.” Offered the girl. </p><p>Right, the girl. Near-death experience aside, they still had to deal with her. Grantaire narrowed his eyes. </p><p>“What are you doing here?” </p><p>“I followed you.” </p><p>“Why?” </p><p>“You made it easy.” She shrugged.</p><p>“Where’s the rest of your gang?” Ferre stepped forwards. </p><p>“Casselman.” </p><p>“You didn’t bring them with you?” Grantaire asked. </p><p>“No—why the fuck would I—the whole point of leaving was to get away, obviously. And speaking of, I don’t know how long that swarm is gonna stay at attention, so maybe we should get out of here before they tear us to shreds..?” </p><p>“We?” Ferre replied, dubious. </p><p>“I’ve followed you this far, haven’t I?”</p><p>“Without us knowing about it.” Grantaire corrected. “Did you forget the part where you held a gun to my head? Did that occur to you at all in this whole plan of yours?” </p><p>“It wasn’t ever loaded.” She replied, crossing her arms for just a moment—they whipped right back out, gesturing wildly. “Come on.” </p><p>“Yeah, come on.” Grantaire replied, motioning for Ferre to follow. “Let’s get out of here.” </p><p>He was two steps gone when Ferre grabbed his arm, pulling him in close. </p><p>“We won’t get to our next rest stop before dark.” </p><p>“Well then what the fuck are we gonna do?” </p><p>The girl cleared her throat. </p><p>“I know a place nearby. Belongs to the guy who adopted my sister. I don’t know if he’s still around, but even if he’s not, he had a giant property all to himself. It’s maybe an hour away by bike.” She raised her eyebrows at them. “I’ll take you there—if you let me go to Montreal with you.” </p><p>“How do you know about that?” Ferre sputtered. </p><p>The girl reached into the side-pocket of her bag and produced a small-radio of her own. </p><p>“The ABC broadcasts on a public wave.” </p><p>R looked over at his brother, searching his face. He seemed as wary about the girl as R felt. The fact that they had been followed all this way—that they hadn’t even noticed? It didn’t sit well with him. Suddenly the thought of having someone else around besides Ferre rubbed him the wrong way. There was no reason for them to trust this girl. </p><p>Then again, there was no reason for her to trust them. </p><p>They could hold each other at arm’s length, and if this place was real… Well it was better than the alternative. </p><p>Ferre was looking at the window, too. Weighing the options. They couldn’t take on nine undead on their own. Grantaire didn’t want it to have to come to that. Ferre would if he had to, he knew that. </p><p>“Okay.” Grantaire said, and Ferre’s head snapped to look at him. He shrugged. “Lead the way.” </p><p>“The back roads are safer.” Said the girl. “Grab your bikes and let’s go.” </p><p>“Grab mine.” Ferre said, and Grantaire had turned back too quickly to say no.</p><p>He treaded quietly on the pavement, weary of the threat he now knew lay just beyond the sliding glass doors, now ever-so-conveniently propped open. In the distance, he could still hear them talking. The quiet of the world had turned wide-open spaces like the highway into tunnels, where sound could carry for eons if you weren’t careful. The two of them were like whisper behind Grantaire’s ears. </p><p>“If you’re going to threaten me.” The girl started. “It’s not going to work. I’ve met men far scarier than you could ever pretend to be.” </p><p>“I’m not going to threaten you. Really, why did you follow us?”</p><p>“I want to go to Montreal.” </p><p>“That’s it?” </p><p>“Safety in numbers.” Grantaire could almost hear her shrugging. “It sounded like you had a plan and you don’t…” </p><p>“What?” </p><p>Grantaire rounded the corner, pushing both bikes. </p><p>“Alright, let’s get the fuck out of here, shall we?”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Hi! long time no see! </p><p>well oh well oh my this is a long boy! i s2g i rewrote this chapter like 3 times cause i just couldnt figure out how i wanted it to work, or if i even wanted it to be like this--but i think i've figured it out! man I've never been good at middles... </p><p>Anyway! if you wanna discuss, you can find me on tumblr @ mysteriouscynic</p><p>next chapter out hopefully not in 20 days lmao. i make no guarantees but believe me i also dont love it</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. Oh, livin' on a prayer</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Grantaire and Ferre are recruited to cause a distraction, and find themselves in hot water. </p><p>Content warning for violence and injury. Nothing too graphic, but yknow, it's zombie apocalypse.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It had taken three minutes of fighting with the underbrush for it to become clear to Grantaire that Éponine had followed them from fifty meters away on the back paths. That’s what she’d said, at least, somewhere between the introduction and the interrogation, and judging by the ease with which she hoisted her own bike over tree roots and brambles, he was inclined to believe her. He and Ferre may have been the ones with a plan, but they didn’t have an ounce the survival skills Éponine had. </p><p>The entire time, she’d been just out of sight, and neither of them had even considered it—let alone had they considered what else could be hanging out on those back roads. </p><p>As it turned out, not much.  </p><p>They rode past the highway exit (why they’d gone through the underbrush in the first place, Grantaire didn’t even bother to ask), and into the little hamlet with it’s picket-white bordered shrubbery. Like every other place they’d been since Orleans, it was quiet. It felt more serene, though. Nothing about the place made the hairs on R’s arm raise, like the fields around Casselman had the moment they’d biked into town. The wind couldn’t cut through the trees that surrounded the gated community that lay ahead of them, its gates wide open. </p><p>The security booth stared back at them, empty and gaping as they biked, the front window still half-open, waiting for some kind of undead security representative to burst out and tell them that they weren’t wanted in these parts. Even in undeath there was no way Grantaire was good enough for a gated community.</p><p>But nothing happened. </p><p>Though it was clear, the further in they rode, that this hadn’t always been the case. Perfect asphalt driveways were streaked with gore, and a couple fences that had once upon a time stood proud and tall were toppled. Another perfect neighbourhood bore the traces of the apocalypse, but no outward signs of danger. </p><p>Were it not for the burning in his lungs, Grantaire might’ve taken a second to think about how apropos it all was, how most unsettling things lay quietly and hidden in places like this, but the burning was still painful, fitting as the silence of the neighbourhood was broken up. </p><p>They heard the horde before they saw it, exchanging nervous glances as they rounded what was supposed to be the final corner before this man’s house. </p><p>Éponine sighed loudly—that was the house they were going to. Of fucking course it was. </p><p>Swathes of undead pushed and shoved against the fence that surrounded the brown home. They groaned and growled, their attention held intently by the house as the garage door closed the last foot down to the pavement. A light flickered in a second floor window. </p><p>“Fuck—um—“ Éponine stuttered. </p><p>Grantaire could feel Ferre’s gaze tighten around the situation, like a wrench securing itself around a bolt. The house looked sturdy—if they could get around the horde…</p><p>Éponine had been thinking the same thing, her head swung wildly around, searching the horizon as if for clues. </p><p>“Bell tower.” Grantaire said, pointing above the trees. </p><p>“We could lure them there with the noise.” Ferre continued. </p><p>“I’m gonna take some heat off the house.” Éponine decided, kicking off the pavement with one foot. They were watching her barrel directly towards the horde before they’d even had the chance to process it.</p><p>“Go—go—“ Ferre urged, kicking off as well, though he turned sharply to go back the way they had come. Grantaire followed suit, and no sooner as they had turned the corner did they hear Éponine in the distance. </p><p>Her shouts punctuated the drone like gunshots, and suddenly the noise spiked. Hunger was a terrible song that R had no intention of learning the words to. He pedalled faster.</p><p>Grantaire knew she knew better than to follow them, but he could feel the sweat pooling on his brow all the same as they measured the skyline standing in between them and the church. </p><p>It’d be a fucking kick in the teeth if they got there and it was just as surrounded—they’d have to bike away with their heads hung low and pray to be able to get Éponine away from her chasers. Unless they just left her. But that wasn’t… </p><p>Then again, the church could be empty and open, but without any way to ring a bell. One of those new-fangled churches with speakers and a button long-cut-off from power. Seeing as they were neither electricians nor particularly avid-churchgoers, there were still so many things that could go wrong. Grantaire made a list of every single one as the trees ate up the last of the bell tower, and the grand wooden doors came into view. </p><p>They were mostly clear of stragglers, though he could see something moving a street down. They’d have to be careful leaving, no doubt there were hordes just out of sight waiting to descend upon them. </p><p>Grantaire tried not to think about it. </p><p>He tried not to think about the fact that they’d trusted the girl who had previously had no qualms about holding a gun to his head with leading a whole mosh pit’s worth of zombies away from them.</p><p>Yeah that wasn’t helping.</p><p>Ferre careened onto the sidewalk, ditching his bike right at the bottom of the grand cobble steps that lead up to the doors. Grantaire didn’t even bother to follow, as Ferre’s attempts to get them open grew increasingly violent. He threw his entire body-weight against the thick wood, which in return didn’t even give an inch. </p><p>The side of the building was tall, and cobbled like the rest of it, with long windows cutting through the stone every couple of meters. They wouldn’t be hard to shatter, course with that came the noise of shattering itself, and Grantaire didn’t like the sound of… Well, any sound, really. No, instead of reaching for the chunk of curb broken off on the road, Grantaire kept running towards the back of the building. </p><p>He could hear Ferre following from not far behind. Whatever it was that had gotten him into thinking that he could break the lock on the giant front entrance was long gone—thankfully before anything else caught on to what they were doing. </p><p>“What’s the definition of sacrilege?” Grantaire huffed, rounding the corner to the back of the building. There a small awning covered a dull green door. Jackpot.</p><p>“Yes breaking into a church counts.” Ferre replied. </p><p>Grantaire jogged ahead of him, making it to the door first, but the handle wouldn’t budge. It was locked from the inside. He pressed his ear up to the wood for a quiet moment, and hearing nothing inside, threw his body weight against it. </p><p>“I feel like I could make a case for seeking sanctuary.” </p><p>“Not unless we stay.” Ferre replied, stepping under the awning with him. “On three. One, two—“<br/>
They both barrelled forwards, and the door gave way with a mighty crack, sending both of them tumbling to the floor of the basement. Grantaire groaned, wiping the dust from his face, but Ferre was already on his feet. He could see the shadow of his drawn hatchet as he surveyed the room. </p><p>From what Grantaire could tell, the walls were the same painted green as the door they’d just broken down, though it was hard to make out much of anything without any lights. The basement didn’t benefit from the stained glass luxury of the main floor, and having had an actual exit, there were no windows. Just darkness and a musty looking couch. Though—at that point, Grantaire was almost keen enough to just lie down there and call it a day. Course, Ferre was already waving him up the stairs to the main floor. </p><p>The main church hall was quiet, the pews only just barely covered in a fine layer of dust. The air hung with a stillness that R hadn’t felt in weeks. The place was untouched. Well, it had been.</p><p>Sorry, Grantaire thought, though the guilt didn’t stop him from launching himself up the stairs behind Ferre once they’d found the hallway that lead up into the bell tower. </p><p>Sometime before the world had ended, Grantaire had watched a documentary about the death-traps that were victorian staircases. Everything about their construction had made them a hazard to the people who spent their lives going up and down them. They were too seep, too narrow, and it wasn’t uncommon for someone taking a tumble to roll all the way down, and never get back up again, only to be found in the morning by their families. The church wasn’t victorian, but that didn’t stop him from considering the descent. His hand tightened around the railing a little more, even as he came to a stop behind Ferre, who stood frozen in the doorway right at the top.</p><p>“Uh. Stay there.” He said, and before Grantaire could argue, he’d taken the last step, and closed the door at the top of the stairs behind him. </p><p>Confused, Grantaire reached for the door, which of course Ferre had had the good sense to lock behind him. Typical. Like before, he pressed his ear up to the cold wood, not quite the same shape of awful green as in the basement, but close. Clearly, the real reason Ferre kept the hatchet to himself was so that he could lock Grantaire out of the main event whenever it suited him. </p><p>There was a thunk—the sound of footsteps, and a turning lock. </p><p>He looked up at Ferre, who nodded, a fresh speckling of blood splattered across his face, and stepped aside. Grantaire didn’t question it, just walked past him into the bell tower. </p><p>It wasn’t as grand as he was expecting. There were no pigeons, or beams of wood propping up giant iron bells. No on the second floor of the bell tower, there was what looked ostensibly like an office. There was a desk with an assortment of papers and a brown jacket hanging off the back of the chair, like whoever had last been up here had intended to be right back. Off to the side there was a closet, where the circular shape of the tower had been intersected by a bland white wall. It was propped closed with a chair, whose mere existence made dust fly up into the air, and pulled lines into the already streaky dust-ladden floors. Looking up, Grantaire saw a hatch in the ceiling, and coming down from next to it, two braided ropes, one freshly cut and swaying in the dead air. </p><p>“I think we need to pull them in sequence” Ferre said, he’d already begun to pull the chair from the desk over to the shorter rope. The jacket fell and landed in the dust, and Grantaire bent down to pick it up while he got himself into position. It was heavy and cold in his hands. He slung it on over his flannel, and wrapped his hands around the longer rope.</p><p>“Right.” </p><p>“You go first.” Ferre said, and Grantaire nodded, glancing down at the ancient chair below his feet. </p><p>“Try not to kill yourself on that thing.” He replied.</p><p>“I’ll be fine.” </p><p>Putting one hand above the other, Grantaire heaved his rope downwards, until his hands came all the way down to his chest, and Ferre mirrored him a couple feet away, raising onto his tip toes so as to not lose his grasp of the rope before pulling it down. </p><p>Grantaire figured that he hadn’t heard anything that loud since the world had ended. Hearing church bells from the parking lot where he’d waited for his buddies to be done with youth group had been a trial in itself. Especially if he was hungover, or nursing a migraine meant to be remedied with the dinner he’d been promised. The ringing reverberated all around, like the air was made of walls, perfect for ping-ponging the sound all the way out onto tenth line. So to hear it directly above his head, encased in brick and drywall—</p><p>That’s what the end of the world should’ve sounded like. It should’ve been the ringing of all the bells on earth, so loud that they shook every last foundation into dust. </p><p>The building quaked with every hit, and Grantaire looked to Ferre with a smile on his face. Ferre’s brow was furrowed in concentration, as he did everything in his power to keep his balance atop the chair. It was in the silence between the ringing that Grantaire could hear the banging on the front door. </p><p>Ferre hopped down from the chair as Grantaire gave one final heave of his rope, the bell clanging a final time, before melting away into the sound of groaning below. From the long window right by the door, Grantaire could already see the crowd they’d amassed gathering around the front of the building, and shoving to get up the cobbled steps. He could see their bikes not far off, either. It’d be close, but—</p><p>“Look.” R followed Ferre’s finger all the way to the steady stream of zombies that had emerged from the brush along the sides of the church. Not too many of them, certainly not enough for Grantaire to worry about, but they weren’t hobbling towards the group at the front. </p><p>He pushed off the windowsill, sliding through the dust to the other side of the room, and the window that looked out towards the back of the building. </p><p>“Fuck.” </p><p>“I didn’t close the basement door, did you?” </p><p>Grantaire shook his head. </p><p>“Fuck.” Ferre echoed. And then again— “FUCK!”</p><p>They’d found themselves in a treehouse again, except this time they hadn’t remained unnoticed. </p><p>Immediately, Ferre went for the door to the stairway, though instead of reenacting the victorian tragedies that Grantaire saw flash before his eyes, he slammed the door shut before turning to push the desk in front of it. </p><p>“We probably have a little bit of time before they figure out how to get to us.” Ferre started, glancing back at R, eyes wide. “If we can hold them off for long enough for Éponine to realize something’s wrong, then maybe we can… Or there’s the radio—“ He was already taking off his backpack, searching desperately for the gift Bahorel had given him. </p><p>Éponine probably wouldn’t be listening, though Grantaire wasn’t about to say that without being able to offer up any other kind of plan. And even if she did… What could one person do? There had to be… Forty… Maybe sixty dead… </p><p>Grantaire had found Jehan’s knife once more, steady and warm now in his palm. He looked out the window, over the rooftop. </p><p>There was a bang at the door, that rattled the desk with a terrible shudder. One of the drawers slid out from its spot, and R only glanced at Ferre’s panic for a second before mounting the chair where he’d just stood and slicing into the long rope with his blade. </p><p>It frayed at once, splitting at the top into the all the little fibers that held it together, but the rest of it held strong, and within thirty seconds, Grantaire had a rope maybe seven feet long dangling from his hands. </p><p>By his guess, it was maybe fifteen feet from the second-story window of the bell-tower to the main roof of the church. It would have to do. </p><p>He punched the screen out of the bottom of the window, and it went tumbling onto the roof. Ferre looked up from his bag at the noise, everything but the radio pressed carefully back inside. He had the sense to put it away at that. Grantaire wouldn’t even have to break the worst of his plan to him—it was just clear. As clear as the following was to Grantaire. He was already tying one side around his waist, securing a knot as tightly as he could before tossing the other end out the window. </p><p>“You first.” He ushered, taking Ferre’s bag from his hands and setting it down right by the window. “And then I’ll throw you the bags—and then me.”  </p><p>“No way that rope is long enough.”</p><p>“I know—I know, but it should get you down far enough to be able to jump without hurting yourself.” </p><p>“No.” Ferre said it with a fervour they just couldn’t afford right then. </p><p>“Just bend your knees—it’ll be like, six feet. I’ve done that before. So can you.” </p><p>“No, no I can’t.” Ferre insisted. “Let me just see if Éponine’s—“ </p><p>“She wouldn’t get here fast enough, and we can’t wait for her.” Grantaire interrupted. “Every second we hesitate they bash another chip into the door, and the—the things out there get more and more agitated, right? It won’t be any worse than taking a tumble off the top bunk.” </p><p>“R.”</p><p>“Just walk yourself down the wall, and when you run out of rope, use as much of your height as you can to bridge the gap, okay? I promise I won’t let you fall. I promise.” </p><p>Grantaire didn’t need to do any searching to tell that Ferre didn’t believe him. The last thing he wanted to do was lower himself down out of that window, but then the door rattled again, and he acquiesced, grabbing the rope and swinging one leg over the edge. The moment he was outside, the rope pulled taught between them, Grantaire braced himself, one foot on the ground, one foot pushing away from the wall. It shook and pulled with every one of Ferre’s steps until he was out of sight. He could feel the braid digging into his back, where he’d tied it around his waist. It wasn’t too bad compared to the alternatives, which Grantaire hadn’t yet let himself consider. He could figure out what he was going to tie himself to as soon as Ferre was safely on the roof. </p><p>“You good down there?” He yelled, craning his neck as far as he could without toppling forwards. </p><p>“I can’t jump.” </p><p>“Let’s turn those can’ts into cans and thoughts into plans kinda fuckin’ quickly, yeah? Counting on you to not leave me a sitting duck here.” </p><p>“Jesus christ just fucking shut up for a second.” Ferre snapped. Grantaire couldn’t see him, but he sounded scared. The threat wasn’t all there. He let out a sigh, straining against his weight. </p><p>“Just—breathe. Take a deep breath, okay?” </p><p>“Okay.” Ferre replied, the rope tugged a little more—Grantaire felt it was slipping, like it was fraying somewhere he couldn’t see.  </p><p>“Okay.” He echoed. “Good. Don’t think about it like jumping. Just—count down from three, get ready to bend your knees, and let go.” </p><p>“Okay.” </p><p>“You can do this.” </p><p>“Count me down.” It came out clipped.  </p><p>“Three—“ Grantaire gritted. The horde banged against the door. “Two. One—“</p><p>All at once the weight at the end of the rope disappeared, and Grantaire tumbled backwards onto his ass, grinning something fierce.</p><p>“I’m okay! Send the bags down!” </p><p>He jumped right to his feet, undoing the knot around his waist with one hand while he sent Ferre’s bag and then his own over the ledge with the other. Then there was just him, the horde, and the fifteen foot drop. </p><p>The desk was sturdiest, and even if it dragged with his weight, there was no way it would up-end itself out the window. Course, the door it was barricading was all the way on the other side of the room. So that left the chair. </p><p>Horizontally, it wouldn’t fit through the window. </p><p>Well. </p><p>He tied one end to the back of the chair, and set it down as across the windowsill as he could manage while still sitting half-in, half-out. It was fine. He’d done stupider shit. This was… </p><p>Ferre would call it a calculated risk. </p><p>Maybe fall, or wait and definitely get torn apart. </p><p>Whatever. </p><p>He swung his second leg over the edge, and pulled the rope taught. The chair clattered against the drywall, sending little puffs of dust into the air where it dug in… But it held tight. Grantaire held his breath, and began the descent. </p><p>The air didn’t feel nice. The dusty confinement of what had become his short-term prison hadn’t been great, either, but the feeling of nothingness wasn’t any more reassuring. Grantaire preferred climbing to the descent. He could trust himself to push him upwards. It was difficult to trust a rope. </p><p>And as if it could hear his thoughts, that frayed part that he had sensed earlier came right into view. </p><p>Huh, it was lower than he’d expected. </p><p>Snap. </p><p>His right foot hit the slanted roof first, and he collapsed in on himself, that whole side searing with the jolt of sudden impact. He only knew Ferre was at his side in a second, because he could feel every footstep in his bones. </p><p>“Taire—“</p><p>“Fuck.”</p><p>“C’mon, c’mon, we’ve gotta go before your adrenaline wears off.” </p><p>He nodded pushing away the pain that had collected in the back of his throat. Ferre was wearing both of their backpacks as he hoisted Grantaire to his feet. Of course, he’d been right. He didn’t feel it yet, just a clicking in his ankle that made him limp a little—but it wouldn’t be long, and they still needed to get to safety.</p><p>They slid down the roof, towards the side out-cropping which lay a bit lower than the rest of the building. Ferre went down first, hatchet drawn, though most of the zombies were still on the other side of the building. Grantaire lowered himself down, found Ferre’s side, and just as quickly they were off. </p><p>He’d regret leaving his bike behind eventually, but for now it was in the middle of the swarm, and Grantaire wasn’t keen on a fight. </p><p>They found the house easily, though not as quickly as either of them would’ve liked. Grantaire could feel his ankle swelling beneath him, and he had to lean rather heavily on Ferre. He hadn’t realized how far away it had been by bike, and now that each step was agonizing, he was acutely aware of the distance. </p><p>The property was barren now, the last few stragglers having been expertly cut down around the fence they’d maintained control of not 20 minutes earlier. The gate was unlocked, and as they hobbled up the driveway the garage door opened to greet them, Éponine’s bike resting against the wall on the inside. </p><p>They found her sitting on the kitchen counter, feet banging against the cabinets. Grantaire slumped into a dining room chair as she spoke. </p><p>“There’s no one here.” </p><p>“What?” Ferre stopped, his hand half-way into his bag. “What about the lights?”</p><p>“They were on a timer.” She shrugged, her brow furrowing the rest of her face into a tight frown. “This place was supposed to be the distraction.” </p><p>“So no kindly old man?” Grantaire asked. </p><p>“Nope.” She glanced his way. “What happened to you?” </p><p>Grantaire shrugged. He wasn’t in the mood for conversation anymore. </p><p>“But it’s safe enough to stay for the night?” Ferre continued. </p><p>“Sure. Cleared it and everything. Probably the safest place for kilometres.” </p><p>Ferre let out a heavy sigh as Éponine hopped off the counter. </p><p>“I’ll go lock the gate.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>told you this chapter would be up sooner!!</p><p>i think we are officially past the halfway point--and what better way to celebrate than with a little bit of Eponine! Hoorah! I promise she'll be more present in the chapters to come lmao, we just can't forget who our main characters are can we</p><p>i was gonna make the title to this chapter a hunchback reference but it seemed a little trite. sorry mr hugo. </p><p>anyway get ready for shit to get real! cause oh lord its a coming</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0010"><h2>10. Bicycle Safety Rule Number 2: Check Your Blindspots</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>10 part road-trip montage! Ferre, R, and Eponine make their way to the outskirts of Montreal through tiny bicycles, bridges, birds, bruising and broadcast radio</p><p>TW for zombie violence, character injury, implied abuse</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“You’ll be lucky if it’s not fractured.” Ferre muttered. </p><p>“I’m lucky I didn’t fall the rest of the way off the fucking roof.” Grantaire replied, crossing his arms. </p><p>Since the door had closed behind them, he’d felt that fluttering in his chest slowly ebb away, and with it gone, the aching in his side had finally taken the throne. His ankle had swollen to nearly double its usual size, and without needing to look closer he could see the dark purple bruises blossoming along his foot. They were a precursor to the rest he knew he’d find once he settled down. The metal roof had scratched up his side something fierce, and to the touch he knew that the rope had left more than just a pressure mark. </p><p>Good for nothing piece of shit bell rope… </p><p>Thankfully, the house they’d found themselves in was luxurious. There was still power and ice in the freezer, so Grantaire had lain himself out on the couch as soon as his brain calmed down long enough to do so. There were no bikes in the garage, though, and the success of their plan had come at the cost of Grantaire’s mobility in every single way imaginable.</p><p>“That was too close of a call.” Ferre said. Grantaire watched as he carefully wrapped his ankle in a tight fabric—something from a wardrobe upstairs, cut into strips. It hurt to touch, but Ferre had made some comment about inflammation and so the wrapping it was. </p><p>“Tell me about it.” He replied. The brown jacket he’d picked off of the chair in the bell tower was still heavy on his shoulders. At least it hadn’t all been for naught. A brown jacket and the promise of a last good night’s sleep. </p><p>“I should’ve made you go first.” </p><p>“Please.” Grantaire scoffed. “If I had gone first, you’d still be in that tower.” </p><p>Ferre rolled his eyes. </p><p>“Well—what’s left of you would be.” </p><p>Grantaire felt a flick on his shin, just as a brief pause in the wrapping. A couple years ago, Ferre would’ve socked him in the shoulder—hell, five days ago, Grantaire had tackled him to the ground. Course, now the closest shoulder to Ferre was on his bad side. </p><p>—</p><p>“Sun’s just set here in Casselman, ABC do you read?” Crooned Jehan’s dulcet tones over the radio. </p><p>Ferre had set up his little station just off the side of the living room for Grantaire to hear from his position on the couch. Éponine had gone off to do her own thing not long after dinner, though Grantaire had a feeling she was just listening in from her own radio in another room. She’d seemed… Disappointed, though whether or not that was accurate, Grantaire couldn’t really be sure. It was the only word he could muster in his ache-y haze. </p><p>“ABC reads you loud and clear, Casselman. Over.” </p><p>“Combeferre, are you out there?” </p><p>“Ferre and Taire read you loud and clear, Casselman. Over.” </p><p>Grantaire rolled his eyes. Over.</p><p>“Glad to hear it, what’s the report on your end?” </p><p>“We encountered some unexpected undead at our initial pit-stop and ran into another survivor who lead us to a better place to stay for the night. Grantaire sustained an injury in the process, nothing too serious—“</p><p>“I FELL OUT OF A FUCKING BELL TOWER.” Grantaire shouted. </p><p>“What was that? Over.” </p><p>“He fell out of a bell tower.” Ferre parroted, shooting Grantaire a look from his chair. “Over.” </p><p>“Oh dear.” </p><p>“Will you be able to continue towards Montreal? Over.” </p><p>“Of course.” Ferre continued. </p><p>Grantaire hadn’t let the thought of stopping become an option for even a moment. Even if this place had electricity, ice, and a fence strong enough to keep out the undead. Ferre had looked at him with a kind of worry he hadn’t seen before when he’d asked the question: could he keep going? Well, Grantaire had already left the only place he really wanted to be, so what was a little further on a fucked up ankle? </p><p>—</p><p>“That’s my sister.” Éponine said, padding down the hallway towards where Grantaire had stopped. </p><p>The conversation had dragged on far longer than the first one at Jehan’s house, and after nearly half an hour, the radio static had started to give him a headache. So he’d hobbled off towards the kitchen, holding onto counters and handles until he could long the wall towards the back of the house. The whole thing was covered in pictures—not unlike a wall one might find at an East Side Mario’s, except that these were real. </p><p>Not that East Side Mario’s didn’t exist, but every picture on the wall there was another stock image, or an Italian landscape dredged up from a collection somewhere to give the illusion of time passing and compounding in a single place. As if the family that started the whole corporation had spent their entire lives in the very location you were standing in.</p><p>Had Grantaire ever actually been hired at the East Side’s he’d applied to in the tenth grade, he would’ve gradually switched the pictures out, sneaking in slightly photoshopped versions in the dim lights of closing. That river by the house? Yeah, there’s a family of card playing otters in that one now. </p><p>He’d never gotten the job, though, and the odds were that no East Side Mario’s would ever run again. </p><p>Christ, what a grim world they lived in. </p><p>Éponine pointed to the tall brown-haired girl in the back, smiling around the way her hair curled into her face. </p><p>“We look more alike than I remember…” </p><p>Grantaire hadn’t ever really looked like Ferre—though that had partly been on purpose. </p><p>“What’s her name?” </p><p>“Azelma.” Éponine offered, squinting her eyes a little at the picture. She pressed a finger to the grey-haired man standing to her left. “That’s Valjean.” </p><p>“Do we like him?” </p><p>Éponine nodded. </p><p>“Good to know.” Grantaire replied, slipping his hand into his pocket, and leaning back until he felt the steady pressure of the wall against his shoulder blade. </p><p>Éponine was still just stood there, standing in front of the picture like it was one of those magic eye puzzles. Grantaire couldn’t tell what she was looking for. It wasn’t the only picture of Azelma—he could see her further down the hall as well. To his right she beamed directly into camera, flanked by the sunny back patio he’d seen through the sliding glass doors in the living room. To his left, she sat posed for a graduation picture. </p><p>She had to be older, then, if Grantaire was right, and Éponine was actually a teenager. </p><p>“I’m sorry about what happened in the parking lot.” </p><p>Grantaire furrowed his brow, Éponine continued. </p><p>“It wasn’t my idea, but y’know.” She shrugged, and R didn’t know, but at the same time he did. He’d done stupid shit as a teenager, mostly thanks to his stupider friends, and he could only imagine that in an apocalypse those impulses were doubled. Everyone thought they were the main character at the end of the world, standing high on a ridge against a fiery backdrop. Everyone was just trying to survive. </p><p>He could still feel the cold steel of the barrel against his temple, but he shrugged all the same. </p><p>“No hard feelings.” He replied. </p><p>“Sure.” She took the picture from the wall and laid it face down on the floor. Grantaire watched as she began to undo the little metal latches on the back holding the cardboard in place. “I wasn’t going to follow you guys at all until I heard you were headed to Montreal.” </p><p>She slipped the cardboard out, tossing it aside to pull out the picture. Grantaire watched her look at it for a moment before deciding he was witnessing a moment with silence probably best-filled. </p><p>“What’s waiting for you there?” </p><p>“Don’t know, yet. But it’s always been the plan, and I’m not gonna let—a fucking apocalypse get in the way of that.” </p><p>Grantaire thought of the boys that had been with her. He thought of Bahorel and Jehan. </p><p>“If you needed to, though, the apocalypse is a pretty good excuse.” </p><p>Éponine shook her head, folding the picture into quarters before moving onto the next one. Azelma all dressed for graduation was set down on the floor, and stripped of the cardboard holding her in place. “Not really.” </p><p> </p><p>—</p><p>Part of R was still shocked that they’d managed to work their way into a place with proper beds for the fourth night it a row. It almost didn’t make sense as far as luck went, though the bruises on his side begged to differ. He’d gotten his fill of shitty luck for the day, and what he really needed there and then was to lie down. </p><p>The sun had dipped into the far horizon, cutting itself off at the neck and illuminating Grantaire with its last few rays as he hobbled all the way up the grand staircase to the second floor. The master bedroom wasn’t even up there—it was on the main floor off the kitchen, though Éponine had claimed it some twenty minutes earlier, closing the door behind herself and locking it with a decisive click. Grantaire didn’t hold it against her, he just wished he’d seen the staircase beforehand and played the pity card sooner. Oh fucking well.  </p><p>Not oh fucking well, really, nothing about this was well—and it was only when he’d finally made it up the stairs that he realized he’d left his bag sitting where Ferre had left it on the dining room table. </p><p>He could do without it for one night. </p><p>It’s not like he had pyjamas to change into or anything, and Jehan’s haircut left him with no need to brush his hair out at all (not that that had been a common occurrence beforehand, make no mistake). It was fine. </p><p>Or maybe his dear hero of a brother would notice and bring it up when he clocked in for the night, along with a glass of water and a shrimp cocktail. Fuck, at least a glass of water, and maybe some mild concern that Grantaire would brush off after making some joke about how he thought purple might be his new colour. </p><p>Those jokes weren’t as funny anymore. Something akin to his own mortality had creeped up along the back roads and made itself a fourth member of their party. Grantaire could tell in the way he limped that the odds of his getting up after a similar hit were getting slimmer and slimmer.</p><p>Right, well, that was a sobering thought—and with that, he turned right back down the stairs. Best to get the steps in while he still could, right? </p><p>Fuck. </p><p>He rounded the corner into the dining room and found Ferre hunched over the radio in the living room. There was a steady stream of chatter coming from the speaker, though he couldn’t make out any of the words, and any trace of a hint on Ferre’s face was wiped away the moment he looked up to see Grantaire. </p><p>Dr. Ferre had been stuccoed onto the walls where his brother had just been, and there in the dining room, a level of decorum had been imposed that Grantaire had not expected. He didn’t know what the mask was for. It was unnerving, and snaggy like a bench that hadn’t been sanded down properly.</p><p>“Did you need something?” </p><p>Grantaire shook his head, hobbling over to the table. </p><p>“I just came to get my bag.” He supplied. </p><p>“I would’ve gotten it for you.” </p><p>“Well, I figured might as well walk while I still can. ” </p><p>Ferre sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose, before finding his palm to lean into. Who did that—pinch the bridge of their nose? It made Ferre look like some stuck up, tired businessman in a black and white film, though maybe that had something to do with the way the living room opened up and around them like a parlour. </p><p>Whatever it was, it clanged around the inside of Grantaire’s head like a bell, and in that moment, he found Ferre fucking exhausting. All he wanted was to go to bed. The day had been a whole lifetime. </p><p>He shouldered his bag onto his good side and turned before Ferre could continue. He knew that couldn’t be it—though he wasn’t inclined for it to continue with ease. </p><p>“I’ll bring you up some ice.” </p><p>“I’m fine.” Grantaire replied, waving one hand over his shoulder. </p><p>“Taire—“</p><p>“I just need to sleep. Goodnight.” </p><p>There was silence, only the sound of Grantaire’s footstep against the hardwood. Thunk, shhhunk, thunk, shhhhunk. He sounded like the amblers outside their treehouse. </p><p>He sounded like that guy in Avalon. </p><p>He sounded like what they’d all be eventually. </p><p>The double door to his right creaked open and Éponine poked her head out. He nodded. </p><p>“Goodnight.”</p><p>“G’night.” She said, casting a glance either way before closing her door once more. Thunk, click. </p><p>—</p><p>Éponine’s bike wasn’t as comfortable as Grantaire’s had been, though maybe that had something to do with the fact that he could only really push with one foot, and also it was a child’s bike. He had… Seven, maybe eight inches on Éponine, and even with as much as they’d raised the seat, that discrepancy really made the difference. His knees raised up too high, pulling his skin too tightly in all the wrong ways. </p><p>He hadn’t even really considered the ways in which skin couldn’t fit. As you got older, it loosened, you made room for the things you collected along the way. When you hurt yourself, you tightened, pulled taught with inflammation and the threads of light that held a person together as they healed. If you died, that skin would shrivel as your insides liquified, and found their way out wherever the skin was loosest. </p><p>They travelled in relative silence, Grantaire had lots of time to think. </p><p>With Éponine and Ferre on foot, the final stretch of their journey that should’ve taken them two, maybe three days at most, had suddenly turned into a five day slog. </p><p>He didn’t want to think about how much easier trying to navigate the looming city by bike would be. As it stood, they were banking on an easy entrance into the city. If they could make it onto the island, they could find a way to meetup with the ABC. </p><p>Course, getting onto the island meant getting through the suburbs, and getting through the suburbs by foot was not something Grantaire wanted to think about before he needed to. </p><p>Grantaire had lots of time to think. </p><p>—</p><p>The little convenience store was the last in the slew of rest stops that stood in between them and the city. The plan for tomorrow was to make it all the way through the outer suburbs and onto the main island just past Ile-Perrot, and so they’d stopped a little early to gather their strengths and what have you. </p><p>He sat propped up against a wall, watching while Éponine and Ferre pushed the heavy shelves from the aisles in front of the glass that made up the front wall. Éponine hadn’t stopped proving herself to be a valuable member of the team, especially with Grantaire newly incapacitated. He was grateful for her strength, and cunning, of course. She seemed to match Ferre’s pace in both stride and planning almost tit for tat, and was never one to shy away from the heavy work. </p><p>What Grantaire liked most were the tunes she whistled—little french melodies that he remembered from la journée Franco, and slower tones that spread out over the empty road. </p><p>If she’d ever wandered her way down to the shoe store, Grantaire had no doubt that Jehan would’ve loved her. Of course, there was no point in asking, what with Casselman so far and irreparably behind them. </p><p>They were fine, though, everyone seemingly was, as their voices still came through the radio after the sun had set. They were two days away from their final destination, Jehan had balked at their pace. Grantaire hadn’t said anything. His ankle was just as swollen as it had been the first night, if not more, and every time he removed his make shift compression at the end of a long day, it was just as ugly and purple as ever. He needed to rest. </p><p>Ferre had told him that before leaving Hudson, with a grimace on his face and the promise that they had a bed waiting for him in Montreal, and the supplies necessary to make a proper splint. </p><p>He assumed that meant his ankle was broken. Felt like it. </p><p>Grantaire had come out of the back room, his hair newly sink-washed and dripping down onto his shoulders, to find Ferre still hunched over the radio. </p><p>“It’s the safest option.” He muttered, shaking his head. “I know—I know.” </p><p>The radio crackled with some kind of incomprehensible static, as Grantaire walked back over to his spot along the wall, with his bag set to prop up his foot, and his flannel folded and carefully set at the top of the jacket he’d taken from the church. Their bed-luck had run out. He hadn’t been grateful enough while it had lasted, and in the time since, he’d grown stiffer. </p><p>Stiffer then he had been in the treehouse, even, cause he had spent that time as a near-constant statue. If you didn’t move, you couldn’t feel how quickly your joints gave into stasis. Not moving wasn’t an option, though. He lowered himself down with a groan. </p><p>Éponine was nowhere to be seen, having claimed the back office for herself.</p><p>“It’ll be faster this way.” Ferre assured. Grantaire loathed the thought of another hurried day through the ever-growing city. </p><p>He rested his leg atop his bag and lay back his head, letting the radio static lull him to sleep. </p><p>—</p><p>“That song reminds me of my dad.” Éponine said—and it was enough to make Grantaire turn his head, offering her a laugh and a raised brow. </p><p>They were coming through an industrial section, with stores and warehouses on either side of the main road, Grantaire had reminded himself of that Daniel Boucher song—the one that his friend’s band had covered a couple years ago. Their version had been nothing to rave about, but Grantaire had liked the way the guitar rumbled through the background. How unforgiving it was. </p><p>The birds above had whistled a tune, and suddenly he’d had the melody stuck in his head. He whistled along through the beginning, the birds offering no help in figuring out the bridge. </p><p>Fucking birds.</p><p>“That doesn’t bode kindly for your father.” Ferre replied. He always took the right side, Éponine on the left, Grantaire rode in the middle so they could help him up any slope they got to, where the force of a single foot peddling wasn’t enough to get him anywhere. </p><p>“Yeah, he’s a piece of shit.” Éponine said. “Know anythin’ else?” </p><p>—</p><p>Ferre had described the bridge standing in their way: long and open, not unlike the highway they’d made the first part of their journey on. </p><p>Grantaire didn’t know why it freaked him out so much. Something about knowing there were no woods to hide in on either side, just the water some fifty feet below if things went south. If he was lucky, the impact would knock him out, and he’d find an end in the unexpected serenity he’d begun to think impossible. </p><p>No—if he was lucky, there’d be nothing on the bridge, and they’d make it onto the island fine, and then everything would be fine from there on. If he was lucky, he’d wake up the next morning and his ankle would be miraculously healed! A miracle of modern medicine! Call the press!</p><p>There was no clear path through the cars scattered half-way along it, stopped mid-voyage, and beyond that, no way of knowing what lay inside of them. </p><p>“I could run that.” Éponine said, gritting her teeth at the sight.</p><p>“Let’s take it slowly.” Ferre countered. </p><p>“Please.” Grantaire had agreed. </p><p>The look on Éponine’s face didn’t read thrilled, but she grabbed onto her side of Grantaire’s handlebars all the same. </p><p>They passed, one, two, seven cars, most of them closed and locked, some slightly ajar in the leftovers of panic, but all thankfully empty. </p><p>Except for one. </p><p>Combeferre had spotted it first, pointing out the pair in the front seats of the Honda Civic before Grantaire had even gotten that far. In silhouette, the two people there were waiting in traffic, staring directly ahead. Nothing unusual, save for the fact that the road was clear ahead of them—and Grantaire could see straight through the chunk missing out of the passenger’s head.</p><p>He couldn’t imagine an end like that: trapped in a car with no way to go forwards, and undead beating at all sides. It was almost too easy to hear the groaned of the axis as the car shifted from side to side under the rocking, shambling weight of its assailants. </p><p>As they approached, Éponine had pulled on her side of the handlebars, steering Grantaire as far into the other lane as possible. </p><p>The undead didn’t shift, not even so much as blinking as they rolled on past, though Ferre kept his eyes locked on them for any signs otherwise. </p><p>They were well in front of it when Ferre stopped, turning back to peer through the dash. </p><p>“This is the smallest stationary group yet.” He said, looking right over the top of Grantaire’s head to speak directly to Eponine. “I thought the stillness was maybe a result of some group activated rigor mortis..” </p><p>“Two is still a group.” Grantaire offered. Ferre nodded, though absently. </p><p>“I want to try something.” </p><p>“Okay…” There was something about the look on his face that made R uneasy—or maybe there was something about his inability to run away that made that feeling bubble in the pit of his stomach. </p><p>“I’m gonna try and rouse them.” He said, and before R could even open his mouth to protest, he continued. “I might not get this chance again, and we can take two of them—“</p><p>“—If there’s only two of them.“ R countered. </p><p>“I haven’t seen any others.” Éponine replied, tapping the end of the bat she’d found in the garage on that first night. “Might as well.”</p><p>“This is stupid.” Grantaire grumbled. Maybe they couldn’t see it cause they still had the option to run away, or maybe Ferre’s desire for undestanding just meshed stupidly well with Éponine’s apparent bloodlust. Whatever it was, it didn’t matter. They weren’t listening to him. </p><p>Éponine dropped her bag next to Grantaire before veering off to the right, flanking the car as Ferre made his more direct approach, hatchet in hand. He leaned down to scoop up a large chunk of concrete barrier, and tossed it directly towards the windshield of the occupied car. </p><p>R did everything to will one of Bahorel’s crossbow bolts all the way from Casselman, but nothing came, and the windshield shattered into cobwebs. </p><p>“Isn’t that enough?” Grantaire pleaded, but Ferre was still walking towards the car and the unmoving undead inside. </p><p>A large gust of wind passed over the bridge, stirring up dust and debris from the pavement—and then suddenly the stillness exploded into noise. </p><p>The passenger zombie lurched out of its chair with a snarl, tumbling to the ground and pulling itself forward on its stomach with its desecrated knuckles. Ferre took it down from a couple feet away, launching his hatchet through what was left of its forehead and out the other side. </p><p>Éponine stood in the driver’s side doorway of the car, watching the remaining zombie struggle to reach her against its seatbelt. After retrieving his hatchet, Grantaire watched Ferre join her before looking away. He heard the woosh of a baseball bat flying through the air, and then the wet crunch of bone against the slapping of a car seat. </p><p>—</p><p>Their spot for the night was some kind of firm, law or insurance or something. It was low and grey-white under the towering shadow of the hospital next door. It was eerily quiet, in a way that did nothing to comfort Grantaire, even after they’d barricaded the doors, and Ferre had re-bandaged his ankle. </p><p>They were getting stupid close to the city, and the more buildings that came into view, the less he was willing to believe that the silence was anything other than a false sense of security. </p><p>But he still needed to sleep, apparently. Yeah, thanks for the helpful tip, Ferre. </p><p>Exhaustion was a bitch, though, and when R woke up a couple hours later, it was to that same familiar sound. Radio static, and Ferre’s voice. </p><p>“I love you.” </p><p>“What?” R shifted, and the water bottle tucked into the side of his bag came loose and rolled onto the floor. His lousy excuse for an attentive person of a brother shot up from his chair. </p><p>“I said—I love you.” Ferre repeated. </p><p>“Why aren’t you sleeping?” </p><p>“Can’t. Sorry if I woke you. I thought you were asleep.” </p><p>“I was,” Grantaire huffed. “Until you decided to get sentimental.” </p><p>Ferre laughed as he bent over, grabbing R’s water bottle just as it bumped into his foot. He set it upright on the ground next to him.</p><p>“Get some rest.” He supplied, in much the same way he did every night. </p><p>“Yeah, uh, likewise man. Likewise. No use staying up this late for transmissions if the radio’s charged anyway…” </p><p>R caught a whiff of a shrug as Ferre returned to his chair. He rolled back over onto his side. </p><p>“I love you, too. But seriously, sleep.” </p><p>__</p><p>Grantaire woke to the early wisps of morning light prying through the blinds. The night had remained blissfully quiet, and he’d slept through the rest of it, though not enough to even warrant considering the day to come. </p><p>Not that it was a choice. </p><p>Sitting up, he glanced across the empty room. The new light held no further clues as to whether they’d holed up in an insurance or law firm, but then again, Grantaire didn’t really give a shit. He never wanted to see the damn place again, with it’s stupid carpet, and stupider poorly-made blinds. Was it fair to blame the state of blinds on their construction as opposed to the literal apocalypse they’d lived through so far? Well—he was holding up better than the blinds, and he’d been through worse, so yeah, fuck ‘em. </p><p>A sharp pain shot through his ankle, as if to say, “Actually no, fuck you.”  and he cupped a hand around his mouth to throw his voice towards the back door that lead to the bathrooms. </p><p>“Hey, whenever you’re done in there, could you check out my foot?” </p><p>Ferre usually did it anyway before they left, so Grantaire didn’t really know why he was asking. </p><p>He’d laid on his side for a while after waking up last night, thinking about the last time he’d told Ferre that he loved him. </p><p>He couldn’t remember—</p><p>“Is that silence a yes?” </p><p>“Stop yelling.”  Éponine poked her head out of the back door, squinting through a frown.</p><p>“Ah, my lovely relay friend, would you tell Ferre to hurry it up in there.” </p><p>She shrugged, and disappeared a moment later. </p><p>It shouldn’t have bothered him that he couldn’t remember. He was old, and no doubt already going senile—forgetting things was just part of the fun. </p><p>And, y’know, some things were just meant to be forgotten, right? He’d spent the back-half of his teenage years convincing himself that Ferre was a non-essential part of his life, a footnote on the way to greatness, or at the very least a terribly gory death. The fact that he couldn’t remember was just reassurance that he’d done his self-appointed job properly. It was bittersweet, in the same way that spending time with your brother in an apocalypse tasted kind of like 60% chocolate. </p><p>Éponine came back out, shaking her head. </p><p>“No? What do you mean, no?” R pressed, hauling himself up to his feet. Well, foot. “He’s the one with the tight schedule.” </p><p>“No—I mean he’s not in there.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>hellooooooo it's been a while, hasn't it? shit's been wild, hasn't it? as penance for my absence! enjoy this extra long chapter! </p><p>no clue when the next one's gonna be up, i wont kid myself and make promises!</p><p>song referenced in this chapter is La Desise by Daniel Boucher which is a personal fave of mine, and definitely vibes with Mr. Thenardier, soooooooooooooo</p><p>also yes here i am messing with canon again ahahaha i will not apologize for giving zelma a good life</p>
        </blockquote><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>The title of this fic comes from the frank turner song recovery, which is in my top 10 for most R songs to ever R.  </p><p>I don't know how many chapters this is gonna be... cause i dont really know how it's gonna go beyond the first couple chapters, to be honest, but if you like it, let me know! and im sure i can figure smth out.</p><p>if you like what you see, find me on tumblr @ mysteriouscynic, rn its mostly shitposting and witcher, with sprinkles of les mis in between</p></blockquote></div></div>
</body>
</html>